IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


/ 


O 


.*'    WJ- 


1.0 


I.I 


i^  IIIM 
1^  111 

S  lis  IIIIIM 


1.8 


125  IIIIII.4     1111.6 


$ 


/} 


^ 


/a 


V 


v: 


V 


/A 


iV 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


1980 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographically  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


D 


D 


D 


•y 


D 
D 
D 


D 


D 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


I      j    Covers  damaged/ 


Couverture  endommagde 


Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaur^e  et/ou  pellicul6e 


I      I    Cover  title  missing/ 


Ld  titre  de  couverture  manque 

Coloured  maps/ 

Cartes  gdographiques  en  couleur 

Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 


Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 


Bound  with  other  material/ 
Reli6  avec  d'autres  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  reliure  serr^e  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  intdrieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
11  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajoutdes 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  dtait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  dtd  film6es. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppl6mentaires; 


L'Institut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  6t6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-dtre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mdthode  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiquds  ci-dessous. 


I      I    Coloured  pages/ 


y 


Pages  de  couleur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagdes 


□    Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Pages  restaurdes  et/ou  pellicul6es 


Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 


)L-\    Pages  ddcolordes,  tachetdes  ou  piqudes 

Pages  detached/ 
Pages  d^tach^es 

Showthrough/ 
Transparence 

Quality  of  prir 

Quality  in'^gale  de  I'impression' 

Includes  supplementary  materit 
Comprend  du  materiel  supplementaire 

Only  ^idition  available/ 
Seule  dditi'^  n  disponible 


I  I  Pages  detached/ 

I  I  Showthrough/ 

I  I  Quality  of  print  varies/ 

I  I  Includes  supplementary  material/ 

I  I  Only  ^idition  available/ 


Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totulement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  6t6  film^es  d  nouveau  de  fapon  d 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


□    This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 
Ce  document  est  filmd  au  taux  de  r6duction  indiqud  ci-dessous. 

10X  14X  18X  22X 


26X 


30X 


y 


12X 


16X 


20X 


24X 


28X 


□ 

32X 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

Douglas  Library 
Queen's  University 

The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  — »-  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED "),  or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 

Mdps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


L'exemplaire  film;}  fut  reproduit  grdce  d  la 
g6n6rosit6  de: 

Douglas  Library 
Queen's  University 

Les  images  suivantes  ont  6x6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettetd  de  l'exemplaire  filmd,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 

Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprim6e  sont  film^s  en  commenpant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  lea  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  filmds  en  commen^ant  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  — ^>  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 

Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
filmds  d  des  taux  de  reduction  diffdrents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  cliche,  il  est  filmd  d  partir 
de  Tangle  sup6rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  ndcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
iilustrent  la  mithode. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

-:■;  ^^^  ■'■,.,  'S 


^  5,|jp  &;  i,;«^-.v  vn  t»;|i>  ^fxr; 


■.wSWlSt* 


'^^ 


«_.,, 


■■Jt'i^'':.  ■ 


Ho.    -•«•> 


^kWit*-. 


J!)f I^JJl^l.U  (llHiWI«!+Uil 


■J  ■  jS> 


.-*T» 


,-Jii* 


•t 


* 


U'"^-^^ 


;t.E;^^;|i^Vi. 


-«(, 


-#i, 


X^m)IU  ^  7f)n^eS 


Helen A^s  Household; 


%dt  0f  %mz  in  i\t  gmi  feteg. 


"  The  very  God !  think,  Abib ;  dost  thou  think? 
So  the  All-Great  were  the  All-Loving,  too  ; 
So  through  the  thunder  comes  a  human  voice, 
Saying,  '  0  heart  I  made,  a  heart  beats  here ! 
Face,  my  hands  faahioned,  see  it  in  Myself. 
Thou  hast  no  power,  nor  mayst  conceive  of  mine 
But  Love  I  gave  thee,  with  Myself  to  love, 
And  thou  must  love  Me  who  have  died  for  thee ! '  •» 


NEW   YORK: 
ROBERT    CARTER    AND   BROTHERS, 

No.   580   Broadwat. 
18  6  7. 


^w — '  II  i«" "  '       'f  ■»■'  '■'  w'^'Trmmrmy'^''  ^hw"^ 


3'  P^,  i^i'f  ^  /4^4^' 


./*^'" 


:.,^ 


y 


,y^- 


'•^nr^' 


Bntered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1867,  by 

ROBERT  CARTER  &  BROTHERS, 

In  tlie  Clerk's  Office  of  tlie  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


Cambribge  ^rjss: 
Dakin  and  Mstoalf. 


-V 


v... 


■\ 


V. 


^.., 


9a  ilgt 


REV.   JOHN    PRYOR,    D.  D, 


"^^ 


■ip;- 


18 

SIiSFIOTPDLI.7    INSOaiBlD. 


3G7blO 


mmv\>m.' 


■«T 


.  ^«^x^  ~ 


'■■'w.. 


l^. 


M. 


OONTElsTTS. 


— -H-israaM**— 


I.  The  Jew  who  had  appealed  unto  CiBSAK,    .       .       .      l 
II.  The  Young  Athenian, 12 

III.  Isaac, ,       ^       _  28 

IV.  The  Boy  and  his  Nurse, 4g 

V.  The  Minister  of  C^sak, 57 

VI.  The  Officer  who  sailed  with  Paul,  ....       72 

VII.  The  Syrian  learns  a  Lesson, 79 

VIII.  "  The  Master," .87 

IX.  The  Return, 98 

X.  The  Hope  of  the  Jews, 1  jo 

XI.  The  Steward  Punished, 128 

XII.  The  Amphitheatre, 233 

XIII.  Cineas  and  Helena, j^o 

XIV.  The  Court  of  Nero,         .....  ikk 

XV.  The  Centurion, ,_ 

XVI.  A  Christian  Mebtinq.      .       .  --„ 

_.--_,  '  •  .  •  •  .        176 

AVU.  The  End  op  Prophecy,       ...  lyg 

XVIII.  The  Briton, *    .   *    .   '  iZ 

XIX.  At  Court, 

XX.  The  Return  op  the  Prodigal  Son,     .       .       .       .      201 

XXI.  The  Resolve, 

XXII.  Son  and  Father, 

XXIII.  The  Burning  of  Rome, 

XXIV.  The  First  Persecution 

XXV.   The  Conspiracy,    . 

XXVI.  The  Arrest,       ....  *  „„, 


"^^T" 


I 


"'    Contents. 


XXVII,  Thb  Avengeb,  . 
XXVIII.  Freedom, 
XXIX.  Changes,    .... 
XXX.  The  Chief  Marttb,   . 
XXXI.  Bereavements, 
XXXII.  Off  to  the  Wars, 

XXXIII.  Nero  in  Greece,     . 

XXXIV.  The  End  of  Nero,      . 

XXXV.   JUDEA,  .... 

XXXVI.    JOTAPATA,        . 

XXXVII.  The  Ministry  of  Sorrow, 

XXXVIII.  The  Fall  of  Jbrusalbm, 
XXXIX.  Conclusion,  . 


% 

292  tir 
304         I 

314  1 
324  ,; 
328         V 

839 

346 

362 

360         * 

367 

874         ! 

385 

412 

4 


I 


v. 


Helena's  Household. 


s.. 


I. 


THE   JEW   WHO    HAD   APPEALED    UNTO 

C^SAR. 

OME ;  in  the  year  of  the  city,  814 ;  in  the  year  of 
grace,  Gl ;  Nero  on  the  throne;  the  apostles  preach- 
ing Christianity ;  the  ancient  world  in  the  period  of 
its  liighest  civilization,  when  petty  divisions  had 
become  extinguished,  and  all  the  nations  bowed  to 
the  one  central  city  :  —  such  is  the  time  of  tliis  story. 
It  was  a  busy,  a  rich,  and  a  densely-peopled  world. 
Military  roads  started  from  the  great  centre,  and  went  to 
the  uttermost  bounds  of  the  empire.  The  Mediterranean 
was  the  highway  of  nations ;  surrounded  by  a  girdle  of 
populous  cities,  everywhere  traversed  by  vast  fleets,  and 
filled  with  the  commerce  of  the  world. 

Roman  law  had  fashioned  all  the  provinces  into  one  form, 
and  stamped  them  all  with  one  image ;  and  those  states 
which  were  formerly  ravaged  by  war  or  piracy,  now,  under 
the  influence  of  universal  peace,  grew  with  a  rapidity  that 
had  not  been  known  before. 

Taking  a  comprehensive  view  of  this  world,  Spain  first 
attracts  our  attention,  where,  for  some  time,  a  Roman  prov- 
ince had  been  advancing  so  peacefully  that  history  finds 
but  little  to  record.     Culture  was  there,  and  Rome  was 
1  (1) 


2       The  yczu  who  had  appealed  nnlo  Caesar. 

receiving  fi'om  that  quarter  her  Lucans,  Senecas,  and  Tra- 
jans.  Cities  lined  the  coast,  prominent  among  which  was 
Gades,  which  yet,  as  of  old,  sends  over  the  world  its  exports 
of  fruit  and  wine  and  oil.  Perhaps  Spain  was  more  pros- 
perous than  now.  Certainly  Africa  wiis  much  more  so. 
Along  the  whole  northern  coast  there  was  a  line  of  nations,  | 

rich  in  culture  and  prosperity,  possessing  great  cities,  which 
sent  over  to  Rome  its  chief  supplies  of  grain.  Carthage  had 
arisen  from  its  ruins  on  a  new  site,  and  many  ca^titals  had 
grown  up  in  places  which  not  long  before  had  been  the  bat- 
tle-grounds of  barbarous  tribes.  Alexandria  had  already 
reached  a  lofty  position  in  science  and  literature,  as  well  as  in 
commerce,  and  was  yet  advancing  still  higher.  Over  all  the 
country  caravans  pierced  the  desert,  carrying  civilization  to 
the  savages  beyond,  and  the  whole  land  was  going  on  in  a 
career  of  prosperity,  which  continued  for  generations  with 
various  fortunes,  till  it  was  checked  by  the  disasiers  of  the 
falling  empire,  and  afterwards  diverted  in  a  new  direction' 
by  Mohammedan  conquest. 

From  Alexandria  came  the  largest  ships  and  greatest 
fleets ;  for  Roman  pride  was  yet  conveying  to  the  metropolis 
those  enormous  Egyptian  obelisks  which  yet  remain  in  the 
modern  city  ;  and  no  small  part  of  Eastern  commerce  came 
up  the  Red  Sea,  to  send  through  this  port,  the  spices,  the 
gold,  the  gems,  the  silks,  and  tlie  rich  tissues  which  were 
demanded  by  Roman  luxury. 

Nor  must  we  forget  Palestine.  Long  since  IIcHenized 
to  some  extent,  and  now  partly  Romanized,  the  people  saw 
their  country  filled  with  the  symbols  of  Western  art  and 
science ;  but,  in  the  presence  of  Greek  ~  rhetoricians  and 
Roman  soldiers,  they  cherished  that  fien;e  fanaticism  which 
blazed  up  in  revolt  at  last,  and  was  quenched  in  the  untold 
agonies  of  the  memorable  siege  of  Jerusalem. 

Beyond  Palestine  were  the  crowded  regions  of  Syria  and 
Asia  Minor,  where  there  were  cities  such  as  Ephesus,  An- 
tioch,  Smyrna,  and   Damascus,  with  many  others,  which 


The  'Jczv  zvho  had  appealed  unto  Ccesar.       3 


surpassed  the  ca))ital  itself  in  splendor  and  magnificence, 
and  have  left  ruins  which  are  the  wonder  of  the  modern 
traveller.  Through  these  came  that  great  overland  trailic 
with  the  farthest  East,  which  formed  a  perpetual  succession 
of  caravans  between  the  Roman  and  the  Chinese  provinces. 

What  lay  beyond  the  nearest  deserts  crossed  by  the  cara- 
vans was  a  profound  mystery  to  the  Romans.  Their  arms 
had  never  reduced  Persia  to  subjection  ;  nor  had  a  Roman 
general  ever  gazed  on  the  plains  of  Scinde,  or  embarked  his 
legions  on  the  Persian  Gulf.  The  Parthians  were  more  for- 
midable to  the  Romans  than  the  Persians  had  been  to  the 
Greeks  ;  nor  did  the  Latin  historian  ever  forgive  Alexander 
for  leading  his  armies  beyond  the  flight  of  the  Roman 
eagles. 

The  descendants  of  those  Greeks  who  had  thus  outdone 
the  Romans  in  the  farthest  East,  still  lived  with  a  certain 
vitality  in  their  old  home.  Athens  was  more  populous  than 
ever,  and  the  country  was  prosperous.  But  the  glory  had 
departed,  and  the  ancient  genius  had  vanished  forever.  It 
would  be  a  great  mistake,  however,  to  suppose  that  the 
Greeks  had  sunk  to  a  level  with  the  other  races  under  the 
iron  dominion  of  Rome ;  on  the  contrar'y,  they  towered 
above  them  all. 

The  position  of  the  Greeks  at  this  time  is  partly  instruc- 
tive and  partly  amusing.  They  were  at  once  the  scholars, 
the  wits,  and  the  sharpers  of  the  day.  Their  literature  was 
studied  everywhere ;  their  arts  were  everywhere  admired. 
No  one  who  pretended  to  be  anybody  was  ignorant  of  their  lan- 
guage. It  was  the  universal  tongue,  and  had  penetrated  into 
all  countries.  Everything  that  required  art,  skill,  ingenuity, 
all  the  finer  employments  of  every  kind,  had  everywhere  jiill- 
en  to  the  lot  of  the  Greeks.  They  were  the  best  painters, 
sculptors,  architects,  and  musicians.  The  master-pieces  of 
art  now  preserved  at  Rome,  if  they  bear  any  names  at  all, 
have  those  of  Greek  artists.  Wealthy  Romans  sent  tlieir 
sons  to  Athens  to  acquire  a  libei'al  education,  or  hired  Greek 


4      The  yew  ivho  had  affcalcd  unto  CcBsar, 

tutors  in  their  own  liouses  at  Rome.     In  Rome  tlae  Greek 
was  everything.     In  the  words  of  the  sneering  satirist,  — 

"  Grammar,  surveying,  physic,  shaving,  art, 
.  '       Rope-dancing,  magic,  —  all,  he  knows  by  heart." 


..'^ 


Northward,  the  barbarian  X2  ces  were  held  in  check,  yet 
chafed  furiously  against  the  biirrier.  The  Pannonians  and 
Dacians  were  watching  their  opportunity.  The  Germans 
refused  to  be  conquered.  Beyond  them  lay  the  innumerable 
Goths,  behind  whom  were  the  Sarmatians  and  Scythians,  who 
again  were  pressed  in  their  rear  by  others.  Among  these 
tribes  the  Romans  found  a  spirit  which  no  longer  existed 
among  themselves. 

Gaul  had  settled  down  into  an  orderly  Roman  province,  with 
all  the  customary  signs  of  Roman  refinement.  The  southern 
coast  had  been  a  civihzed  country  for  ages ;  and  Massilia, 
which  was  founded  by  the  Greeks,  centuries  before,  was  dis- 
tinguished for  its  culture  ;  while  in  its  neighborhood  were 
powerful  cities  which  have  bequeathed  to  our  times  vast 
monuments  and  majestic  ruins. 

Beyond  the  sea  lay  Britain,  now  filled  with  war  and 
carnage.  For  this  was  the  year  of  the  vengeance  of  Boa- 
dicea,  when  Suetonius  had  marched  against  the  Druids, 
leaving  the  island  in  his  rear  unprotected.  Then  the  British 
queen  had  gone  with  her  daughters  among  the  tribes,  rousing 
them  to  revenge.  The  country  fell  back  into  their  power. 
Suetonius  was  lost  to  view ;  and  the  Roman,  looking  toward 
Britain,  saw  everything  hidden  from  view  by  the  smoke  of 
burning  cities. 

And  what  was  Italy  itself,  the  centre  of  this  ancient 
world  ?  A  vast  community  of  cities,  a  network  of  magnifi- 
cent roads ;  its  land  cultivated  like  a  garden,  and  teeming 
with  population.  In  the  north  were  the  fertile  plains  at 
the  foot  of  the  Alps,  with  many  stately  and  populous  citiest 
Next  came  Etruria,  where  the  olive  and  the  vine  grew  over 
all  the  liill-slopes  and  throughout  the  quiet  valleys.    Cam- 


I 

1 


1 


1 


I 


,* 


1 


The  yew  ivho  had  afj^ealcd  wito  CcBsar.       5 


I 


pania  was  then  filled  with  inhabitants ;  the  Pontine  marshes 
were  drained  and  cultivated ;  and  the  most  beautiful  part 
of  all  the  world  was  found  then,  as  now,  in  Naples  Bay, 
where  Roman  luxury  had  exhausted  all  its  resources  in 
contriving  new  sources  of  delight  and  new  modes  of  en- 
joyment. -  .„ 

Where  shall  we  begin  ?  Shall  it  be  with  Paestum,  where 
in  this  age  those  five  temples  were  standing,  admired  al- 
ready as  types  of  hoar  antiquity,  but  destined  to  a  still  .nore 
venerable  age,  since  they  have  come  down  to  our  day  in 
wonderful  preservation;  —  or  Sorrentum,  with  its  wonderful 
valley,  whv  I'e  there  is  perpetual  spring  throughout  the  year ; 
—  or  Capreaj,  where  Tiberius  was  wont  to  retire  and  de- 
vise, in  hideous  secrecy,  new  refinements  of  cruelty ;  —  or 
Pompeii  and  Herculaneum,  which  the  awful  fires  of  Vesu- 
vius were  soon  to  overwhelm,  and  bury  from  the  sight  of 
man,  so  that  they  might  lie  hidden  through  the  centuries,  and 
be  exhumed  in  our  day,  to  portray  to  us  the  corrupt  form 
of  ancient  civilization  as  it  appears  in  their  melanclioly 
streets?  Or  shall  we  turn  to  Baia3,  where  for  generations 
there  assembled  all  that  Rome  possessed  of  genius,  of  wealth, 
of  valor,  of  luxui-y,  of  effeminacy,  and  of  vice,  to  present  a 
strange  mixture  of  sensuality  and  intellect,  of  taste  and  cor- 
ruption ;  where  the  massive  piles  even  now  remain  which 
Caligula  reared  from  the  depths  of  the  sea,  so  that  he  might 
avoid  the  curve  of  the  shore,  and  have  a  straight  path  in 
defiance  of  the  obstacles  of  the  ocean ;  —  to  Misenum,  with 
the  Roman  navy  at  anchor,  and  triremes  passing  and  repass- 
ing at  all  times;  —  to  the  Lucrine  Lake,  and  the  Elysian 
fields,  and  the  Cumajan  grotto,  through  which  Virgil  makes 
hiri  hero  pass  to  the  under  world ;  or  to  that  steep  cliiF  over- 
hanging the  Grotto  of  Posilipo,  which  the  same  poet  chose 
for  his  burial-place,  of  whom  the  well-known  epitaph  gives 
the  biography, —  > 

'      •.     "  I  sing  flocks,  tillnfje,  heroes.    Mantua  gave 

Mo  life;  Brundusium  death;  Naples  a  grave"? 
1* 


'i  I 


6      The  'Jczv  who  had  affealed  unto  Cc^sar. 

Or  will  our  Christian  instincts  lead  us  to  turn  away  from 
these  to  Puteoli,  to  see  the  landing  of  Saint  Paul,  and  follow 
his  steps  to  the  foot  of  Caesar's  throne  ? 


It  was  drawing  near  to  the  close  of  a  day  in  early  spring, 
when  a  numerous  party  rode  on  towards  Rome  from  the  di- 
rection of  iVaples.  First  came  a  detachment  of  soldiers,  at 
whose  hpad  was  the  decurion ;  and  immediately  following 
them  was  a  centurion,  by  whose  side  rode  two  men.  The 
rest  of  the  party  were  civilians ;  some  being  Roman  citizens, 
others  foreigners ;  some  of  high  rank,  others  of  humble  cir- 
cumstances. They  all  rode  on  cheerfully,  with  animated 
conversation,  smiles,  and  frequent  laughter.  On  the  whole, 
however,  their  character  and  expression  appeared  rather  se- 
date than  otherwise,  and  it  was  the  excitement  of  the  occa- 
sion which  led  to  their  mirthfulness. 

The  two  men  who  rode  next  to  the  centurion  were  of 
different  race  and  more  impressive  aspect.  Their  faces  and 
dress  showed  that  they  were  Jews.  The  centurion  treated 
them  with  the  utmost  respect.  The  one  who  rode  nearest 
to  him  had  an  intellectual  face,  and  clear,  inquiring  eye. 
His  eager  glance  fixed  itself  on  every  new  object  which  i(^ 
encountered  on  the  way,  and  he  asked  numerous  questions, 
which  the  officer  politely  answered.  The  other  ti*aveiler 
was  of  different  app(  urance.  His  size  was  under  the  av- 
erage ;  his  hair  was  short  and  crisp ;  his  face  bronzed  by  ex- 
posure ;  his  forehead  broad  and  expansive,  yet  not  very  high ; 
his  lips  thin ;  l.is  mouth  closely  shut  and  slightly  drooping  at 
the  corners ;  his  jaw  square  and  massive,  and  covered  with 
a  heavy  beard  ;  his  eyes  gray  and  wonderfully  piercing.  He 
rode  on,  looking  fixedly  at  the  city,  now  in  full  view,  and 
appearing  to  notice  little  of  what  was  going  on  around  him. 
It  was  a  face  which  one  would  look  at  a  second  time,  —  a 
bold,  massive,  mighty  face ;  with  restless  energy,  fire,  and 
power  stamped  upon  every  lineament ;  and  yet  wearing  over 
all  a  strange  serenity.     In  the  wrinkles  of  his  brow,  and  the 


■Ik 


I 


X 


The  'Jew  zvho  had\apfcaled  unto  Ccesar.       7 


m 


lines  of  his  face,  was  graven  the  record  of  long  struggles  and 
arduous  toil ;  and  yet  even  the  most  careless  observer  could 
see  that  this  man  had  come  forth  out  of  all  his  troubles  more 
than  conqueror.  ^'^  -^ 

Such  was  Paul,  the  apostle.  His  corapanicn  was  Luke, 
the  beloved  physician.  The  officer  was  Julius,  the  centurion. 
The  friends  were  the  Christians  of  Rome,  who  had  come 
out  to  meet  the  apostle  as  far  as  Tres  Tabernaj  and  Forum 
Appii,  at  the  reception  of  whose  warm  welcome  the  two 
friends  "  thanked  God  and  took  courage." 

And  now  from  afar  there  came  the  deep  hum  of  the  city, 
the  tread  of  its  millions,  and  the  roll  of  wheels  over  the 
stony  streets.  The  lofty  many-storied  houses  rose  high,  and 
above  them  rose  temples  and  towers  and  monuments.  In 
the  midst  was  the  vast  outline  of  the  imperial  palace  ;  and 
high  above  all,  the  Capitoline  Hill,  with  its  coronet  of  tem- 
ples. 

The  crowd  along  the  streets  increased  at  every  pace  as 
they  drew  nearer,  until  at  length  they  were  compelled  to 
move  more  slowly.  The  highway  became  less  a  road  than  a 
street ;  houses  were  all  around,  and  it  was  difficult  to  tell 
where  the  country  began  and  where  the  city  ended  ;  for  the 
overgrown  metropolis  had  burst  beyond  its  walls,  and  sent  its 
miles  of  suburbs  far  out  into  the  plain.  The  road,  at  every 
step,  became  more  thronged,  until  at  last  it  was  filled  to  over- 
flowing. Here  came  chariots  of  nobles  on  their  way  to  dis- 
tant villas ;  there  rolled  along  ponderous  carts  laden  with 
stone  for  building  purposes;  from  one  direction  came  a  band 
of  soldiers,  from  another  a  gang  of  slaves.  Here  came  a 
drove  of  oxen,  stately,  long-horned,  cream-colored,  —  always 
the  boast  of  Italy,  —  and  close  behind  followed  a  crowd  of 
shepherds  or  drovers.  Still  the  crowd  increased:  asses 
with  panniers  ;  mules  with  burdens  ;  fossors  with  loads  of 
sand  from  the  catacombs ;  imperial  couriers  ;  gangs  of  pris- 
oners in  chains ;  beggars  displaying  loathsome  sores  ;  priests 
on  their  way  to  the  temples ;  water-carriers ;  wine-sellers  ;  all 


8      The  yew  who  had  appealed  unto  Ccesar. 


the  arts,  and  all  the  trades  ;  —  such  was  tlie  motley  crowd 
that  now  roared  around  them  while  yet  they  were  outside 
the  gates. 

Now  the  road  was  lined  on  each  side  with  tombs,  among 
which  they  passed  the  enormous  round  tower  of  Cnocilia 
Metella,  a  sepulchre,  \\\c  the  Egyptian  pyramids,  built  for 
eternity.  From  this  spot  there  extended  a  long  line  of 
tombs,  containing  the  noblest  dead  of  Rome.  Our  party 
went  on  and  drew  nearer.  They  passed  the  Grotto  of 
Egeria,  with  a  grove  around  it,  which  was  hired  out  to  the 
Jews.  They  passed  the  place  on  which  tradition  says  that 
Hannibal  stood  and  hurled  his  dart  over  the  walls ;  and 
came  near  to  the  Porta  Capena,  where  one  of  the  aque- 
ducts ran  right  over  the  top  of  the  gate. 

What  thoughts  were  these  which  so  absorbed  the  mind  of 
the  great  apostle,  that  he  seemed  to  notice  nothing  around 
him  ?  Was  it  the  magnitude  and  splendor  of  the  capital ; 
or  rather  the  vast  power  of  that  heathenism  with  which  he 
was  making  war  ? 

What  that  society  was  into  which  he  was  carrying  the 
gospel  of  the  Saviour,  he  knew  well ;  and  we,  too,  may  know, 
if  we  regard  the  pictures  which  are  presented  to  us  by  men 
who  wrote  not  many  years  after  this  reign  of  Nero.  There 
is  the  greatest  of  Roman  historians,  and  the  mightiest  of 
satirists.  Each  has  left  his  record.  Were  that  record  sin- 
gle, we  might  think  it  exaggerated ;  but  each  is  supported  by 
the  other.  Were  Juvenal  only  before  us,  we  might  think 
his  statements  the  extravagance  of  a  poet  or  a  satirist;  but 
all  that  Juvenal  affirms  is  supported  and  strengthened  by 
the  terrible  calmness  of  Tacitus  ;  in  whom  there  is  no  trace 
of  passion,  but  the  impartial  description  of  hideous  reigns, 
drawn  up  by  one  whose  own  heart  that  age  had  filled  with 
bitterness. 

What  jthen  is  the  picture  which  we  find  in  these  pages  ? 

The  simple  virtues  of  the  old  republic  had  long  since 
passed  away.     Freedom  had  taken  her  eternal  flight.     The 


;i 


The  yew  who  had  appealed  tmto  CcBsar.       9 


iS 


people  were  debased  and  looked  on  in  silence  at  the  perpe- 
tration oi'  enormous  crimes.  After  Nero's  dealings  with  his 
mother,  he  could  still  be  emperor.  The  name  of  religion  was 
applied  to  a  system  corrupt  to  the  Inmost  centre.  No  onQ 
believed  in  it  wiio  had  any  pretence  to  intelligence.  Public 
honor  and  justice  were  almost  unknown;  and  conquered 
province.''  "cre  only  regarded  as  victims  of  oppression.  Pri- 
vate virtues  nad  almost  vanished  ;  and  honor  and  truth  and 
mercy  were  little  more  than  empty  sounds.  Decency  itself 
had  departed  ;  and  vices  which  cannot  be  named  in  our  day 
were  fi-'^e  y  practised,  unchecked  by  public  opinion.  It  was 
a  society  where  vice  had  penetrated  to  the  heart  of  almost 
every  household.  That  was  the  most  familiar  thought  which 
was  the  most  impure.  Honor  had  fled  from  men,  chastity 
from  women,  innocence  from  children. 

And  what  contracts  appeared  in  that  society  to  their  eyes  ! 
They  saw  one  emperor  cutting  away  a  mountain  to  build  an 
imperial  palace ;  and  another  summoning  a  council  of 
state  to  decide  about  the  cooking  of  a  fish.  They  saw  the 
name  and  fame  and  glory  of  the  old  republican  heroes  all 
forgotten  by  their  degenerate  descendants,  who  now  prided 
themselves  in  nothing  so  much  as  their  skill  in  detect- 
ing at  a  single  taste  the  native  bed  of  an  oyster  or  sea-urchin. 
EiFeminate  nobles  wore  light  or  heavy  finger-rings  to  accord 
with  the  varying  temperature  of  the  summer  and  winter  sea- 
sons, and  yet  could  order  a  score  of  slaves  to  be  crucified 
as  an  after-dinner  pastime.  This  was  the  time  when  blood- 
thirsty myriads  were  watching  the  death-agonies  of  gladia- 
tors whose  vengeful  kindred  were  raging  all  along  the  bor- 
ders of  the  empire ;  when  Roman  soldiers  abroad  were 
beating  back  the  Dacians,  or  marching  against  the  Druids, 
in  the  isle  of  Mona,  while  Boadicea  led  on  the  tribes  to  the 
vengeance  of  Camulodune ;  and  when  Roman  citizens  at 
home  were  scrambling  for  their  daily  dole  of  victuals  at  the 
doors  of  the  great ;  when  he  was  most  fortunate  who  was 
most  vicious ;  and  they  obtained  wealth  and  honor,  who  by 


V.-. 


lo     The  ycTu  who  had  appealed  unto  Ccesar. 


forging  wills,  had  defrauded  the  widow  and  the  orphan  ; 
when  a  fierce  populace,  fresh  from  the  amphitheatre,  and  a 
nobility  polluted  by  vices  without  a  name,  and  an  emperor 
stained  with  the  guilt  of  a  mother's  murder  ;  gazing  mock- 
ingly upon  the  death-agonies  of  martyrs  wlio  died  in  flames, 
clothed  in  the  tunica  molesta ;  when  for  year  after  year, 
and  generation  after  generation,  all  these  evils  grew  worse, 
till,  in  the  fearful  words  of  Tacitus,  "They  would  have 
lost  memory  also  with  their  voice,  if  it  had  been  possible  as 
well  to  forget  as  to  keep  silent." 

It'  may  be  urged,  however,  that  there  was  much  virtue  in 
spite  of  all  this  vice.  True,  there  was  virtue,  and  that  too 
of  a  high  order.  There  are  names  which  glow  with  a  lustre 
all  the  brighter  for  the  darkness  that  is  around  them.  They 
irradiate  the  gloom  of  Tacitus'  histories ;  and  make  us  exult 
in  seeing  how  hard  it  is  for  corruption  to  extinguish  the 
manly  or  the  noble  sentiment.  Partus  Thrasea,  Aurulenus 
Rusticus,  Helvidius  Priscus  would  adorn  any  age.  Lucan 
alone  might  have  ennobled  this.  Seneca's  life  may  have  been 
doubtful ;  but  who  can  remain  unmoved  at  the  spectacle  of 
his  death  ?  Afterward  Tacitus  and  Pliny  sustained  their 
virtuous  friendship,  and  found  others  like  themselves,  —  kin- 
dred spirits,  —  who  made  life  not  endurable  but  delightful. 
In  that  age  and  in  the  subsequent  one  there  were  good  and 
high-hearted  men ;  for  did  not  the  "  good  emperors  "  succeed 
the  "  bad  emperors "  ?  Trajan  would  have  adorned  the 
noblest  age  of  the  world.  Marcus  Aurelius  stands  among 
the  first  of  those  who  have  ruled.  In  addition  to  these 
great  characters  of  hif  tory,  there  were  no  doubt  many  men, 
of  an  obscure  order,  who  passed  through  life  in  an  obscure 
way,  and  yet  were  honest  and  high-minded  citizens.  There 
were,  no  doubt,  many  like  Juvenal's  Umbricius,  who  deplored 
the  vice  around  them,  and  believed  with  him  that  Rome  was 
no  place  for  honest  men ;  but  tried  to  be  honest  in  their  way. 
There  must  have  been  many  of  these,  of  whom  Umbricius 
is  only  a  type  ;  too  plain-spoken  to  succeed  in  a  generation 


i 


The  yczv  who  had  appealed  unto  Ccesar.     1 1 


of  flalterers,  and  too  high-minded  to  stoop  to  that  baseness 
by  whicli  alone  iulvanccinent  could  be  obtained. 

Moreover  Rome  was  not  the  world.  Beside  the  capital, 
there  was  the  country.  There,  as  Unibi  icius  says,  might  be 
found  simplicity,  virtue,  and  honesty.  Among  the  simple, 
the  high-minded,  and  the  frugal  rustics,  th'>  v'ce  (.f  the  city 
was  unknown.  In  the  rural  districts,  without  doubt,  the 
great  masses  of  men  continued  as  they  Lad  ever  been,  — 
neither  better  nor  worse. 

Let  us  allow  all  this,  —  that  there  was  this  exceptional 
morality  in  the  city  and  this  rural  simplicity  in  the  country. 
What  remains  ? 

Simply  this :  that  after  all,  Rome  was  the  head,  the  heart, 
and  the  brain  of  the  world.  It  guided.  It  led  the  way. 
What  availed  all  else  when  this  was  incurably  disorganized  ? 
Its  virtuous  characters  found  themselves  in  a  hopeless  mi- 
nority. They  could  do  nothing  against  the  downward  pres- 
sure all  around  them.  They  struggled,  they  died  ;  and  other 
generations  arose  in  which  the  state  of  things  was  worse. 
The  whole  head  was  sick,  the  whole  heart  faint.  The  life 
of  the  state,  as  it  centred  round  its  heart,  drew  corruption 
from  it  which  passed  through  every  fibre.  Society  was 
going  to  decay,  and  one  thing  alone  could  save  the  world. 

That  remedy  was  now  brought  by  the  man  whom  we  have 
described. 

But  now  our  party  have  passed  under  the  dripping  arch- 
way of  the  Porta  Capena ;  and  the  centurion  conveys  to  his 
destined  abode  the  Jew  who  had  appealed  unto  Ctesar. 


^W«  !(!■.   P      D* 


II. 


■!HI 


77/:^    YOUNG   ATHENIAN, 

PON  the  slopes  of  the  Apennines,  in  the  vicinity  of 
Tibur,  stood  the  villa  of  Lucius  Sulpiciua  Labeo. 
From  the  front  there  was  an  extensive  prospect 
which  commanded  the  wide  Campania,  and  the 
distant  capital.  The  villa  was  of  modest  propor- 
tions, in  comparison  with  many  others  near  it,  yet 
of  most  elegant  style.  The  A'ont  was  decorated 
with  a  broad  portico,  before  which  was  a  terrace  covered 
with  flowers  and  shrubbery ;  the  walks  were  bordered  with 
boxwood,  which  in  places  was  cut  into  the  forms  of  animals 
and  vases.  The  public  road  was  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away ;  and  a  broad  avenue  of  plane-trees  connected  it  with 
the  house,  winding  in  such  a  way  as  to  afford  a  gentle  de- 
scent, and  where  it  joined  the  road  ther'i  was  a  neat  porter's 
house.  Behind  the  villa  were  out-houses  and  barns ;  on  the 
right  was  an  extensive  kitchen-garden ;  on  the  left  an  or- 
chard and  vineyard  surrounding  the  steward's  house. 

Other  villas  dotted  the  slopes  of  the  mountains  far  and 
near.  The  most  conspicuous  among  these  was  the  one  im- 
mediately adjoining,  a  most  magnificent  establishment,  which 
far  exceeded  that  of  Labeo  in  extent  and  splendor.  This 
w^as  the  villa  of  Pedanius  Secundus,  at  this  time  prefect  of 
the  city.  From  the  terrace  of  Labeo  the  greater  part  of 
this  estate  could  be  seen ;  but  the  eye  rested  most  upon  a 
sickening  spectacle  at  the  gates  of  Secundus,  where  two 
wretched  slaves  hung  upon  the  cross,  whose  faint  moans 
showed  that  life  was  not  yet  extinct. 
(12) 


The  Tounc;  Athenian, 


13 


■4. 


'^ 


It  was  enrly  dawn,  and  the  sun  had  not  yet  risen,  but  in 
the  neighboring  vilhi  the  sound  of  voices  showed  that  the 
slaves  were  out  for  the  day's  labor.  The  villa  of  Labeo,  on 
the  contrary,  was  all  sileni,  and  no  one  was  visible  except 
one  figure  on  the  portico. 

This  was  the  mistress  of  the  house,  a  lady  of  exquisite 
beauty,  who  was  yet  in  the  bloom  of  her  youth.  Her  man- 
ner indicated  extreme  agitation  and  impatience.  She  would 
pace  the  terrace  in  a  restless  way  for  a  time,  and  then,  hast- 
ening down  the  steps  to  the  terrace,  she  would  look  eagerly 
along  the  public  road  as  though  awaiting  some  one. 

At  length  her  suspense  ended.  The  sound  of  horse's  feet 
came  from  afar,  and  soon  a  single  rider  came  galloping 
rapidly  along.  He  turned  in  to  the  gate-way,  ran  up  the 
avenue,  and  in  a  few  minutes  more  had  reached  the  house. 
The  lady  had  hurried  down  as  soon  as  she  saw  him,  and 
stood  waiting  for  him,  and  encountered  him  in  the  avenue. 
Tlie  rider  leaped  from  his  horse  and  carelessly  let  him  go. 
The  lady  seized  both  his  hands  in  a  strong,  nervous  grasp ; 
and,  in  a  voice  which  expressed  the  deepest  agitation,  she 
asked,  hurriedly,  — 

"Well,  what  news?" 

She  spoke  in  Greek.  For  a  moment  the  other  did  not 
reply,  but  looked  at  her  with  a  troubled  face,  which  he 
vainly  tried  to  render  calm. 

There  was  a  strong  likeness  between  the  two  as  they  stoo4 
thus,  looking  at  one  another,  —  the  likeness  of  brother  and 
sister.  In  both  there  were  the  same  refined  and  intellectual 
features  of  the  purest  Greek  type,  the  same  spiritual  eye 
and  serene  forehead.  But  in  the  woman  it  was  softened  by 
her  feminine  nature  ;  in  the  man  it  had  been  expanded  into 
the  strongest  assertion  of  intellectual  force. 

"  My  sweet  sister,"  he  said,  at  last,  speaking  also  in 
Greek,  with  a  purity  of  accent  that  could  only  have  been 
acquired  by  a  breeding  under  the  shadow  of  the  Athenian 

Acropolis,  —  "  My  sweet  sister,  there  is  no  reason  for  such 
2 


14 


The  Toung  Athenian. 


agitation.  I  have  heard  nothing  directly ;  hut  I  firmly  he- 
lieve  Lahco  to  be  safe." 

"You  have  heard  nothing,"  she  repeated,  breathlessly. 
"What  am  I  to  do?" 

"  Yes,  dearest ;  I  have  heard  good  news  and  bad  news, 
but  nothing  from  Labeo.  But  you  are  so  nervous  that  I 
am  afraid  to  say  anything.  Come,"  —  and,  taking  her 
hand  affectionately,  he  walked  with  her  toward  the  portico. 

"  Helena,  do  you  think  you  can  bear  what  I  have  to 
tell  ?  "  he  asked,  as  they  stood  there  together. 

She  looked  up  at  his  anxious  face,  and  pressed  her  hand 
to  her  heart  with  a  quick  gesture.  Then  she  replied,  hi  a 
voice  of  forced  calmness,  — 

"  Cineas,  suspense  is  worse  than  anything.  Tell  me 
exactly  what  you  have  heard.  Don't  conceal  anything.  I 
want  to  know  the  very  worst,  whatever  it  is." 

After  a  brief  pause,  Cineas  said,  — 

"  Helena,  you  are  right.  Suspense  is  the  worst.  I  have 
nothing  to  tell  you  wliich  you  may  not  know.  I  know,  too, 
your  strength  of  character,  and  I  solemnly  declare  that  I 
will  not  conceal  anything  from  you.  At  the  same  time  I 
want  you  to  see  things  as  they  really  are,  and  not  sink  at 
once  into  despair.  Recall  for  a  moment  the  last  letter 
which  you  received  from  Lucius.     How  long  ago  was  it  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  heard  from  Lucius  for  more  than  two 
months,"  said  Helena,  "  ever  since  they  moved  away  from 
London  to  Camulodune  to  prepare  for  that  fatal  march  to 
Mona.  Lucius  spoke  very  joyously,  told  about  the  Druids 
and  their  cruel  rites,  praised  the  ability  of  Suetonius,  and 
filled  his  letter  with  praises  of  his  genial  friend  Agricola, 
who  was  his  tent  companion." 

"  You  know  that  Suetonius  is  one  of  the  best  generals  in 
the  army,  —  perliaps  the  very  best  after  Corbulo." 

"  Yes,"  sighed  Helena. 

"  You  know,  too,  that  Lis  lieutenants  are  all  men  of  vigor 
and  bravery;  and  his  selection  of  such  men  as  Agricola 


i 


V 


The  TouHj^  Athenian. 


15 


in 


and  Lucius  for  his  aids  shows  his  shrewdness  and  percep- 
tion." V. 

«  True,  Cinens." 

"  "Well,  think  on  this  now,"  said  Cineas,  in  a  voice  which 
he  mennt  to  be  cheerful.  "  The  only  danger  which  you  can 
fear  is  disaster  to  that  army.  No  tidings  hjiv^e  come  from 
it  for  some  time.  But  such  a  general  as  Suetonius  can 
scarcely  be  in  danger  of  disasteA  The  reason  why  we  have 
not  heard  is  because  the  Britons  have  been  rising  in  insur- 
rection in  his  rear,  and  breaking  off  his  communications." 

Helena  said  nothing,  but  looked  at  her  brother  with  un- 
changed sadness. 

"  We  ought,  then,  to  believe  that  Suetonius  will  shortly 
emerge  from  the  gloom,  and  shatter  the  barbarian  power  to 
pieces." 

"  Yes ;  but  you  have  not  yet  told  me  the  last  news  from 
Britain,  and  how  do  I  know  what  to  believe  or  think?" 
said  Helena,  anxiously. 

"  Because  I  wished  you  to  bear  this  in  mind,  —  that, 
■whatever  has  happened,  the  army  is  safe  and  so  is  Labeo. 
Suetonius  will  appear  with  his  legions,  and  take  revenge." 

"0  Cineas,  keep  me  no  longer  in  suspense!"  said  Helena, 
in  a  tremulous  voice.  "Tell  all — all.  This  suspense  will 
kill  me.     Let  me  know  the  veiy  worst." 

"My  dearest  sister,"  said  Cineas,  in  a  voice  which  he 
vainly  endeavored  to  render  calm,  "  the  whole  of  Biitain  is 
in  arms  against  the  Romans." 

Helena  turned  pale  as  death,  and  staggered  back  a  few 
paces ;  but  Cineas  caught  her  hands  and  held  them  in  his. 

"  Can  you  bear  to  hear  more  ?  "  he  asked  anxiously. 

"  All,"  replied  the  other,  in  a  whisper. 

"  The  whole  island  is  at  their  mercy.  Their  leader  is 
Boadicea." 

"Boadiceal"  ,   . 

"The  same." 

"  The  one  who  has  suffered  such  wrongs !    Just  Heaven !  " 


^Pp^^l^PiJIII  lllin.l^l"! 


i.U  .IJILJ  ^H*,«J.  I 


,-> 


- 


II   I 


i6 


,J 


The  Toung  Athenian. 


"  The  very  same.  She  has  roused  all  the  tribes  to  mad- 
ness, and  they  follow  1i«t  wherever  she  leads." 

"  Oh !  "  cried  Helena,  "  what  vengeance  will  be  sufficient 
for  such  wrongs  as  hers ! "  She  clasped  her  hands  in  agony. 
"  No  resistance  —  no  —  none  —  can  it  be  possible,  and 
Suetonius  is  in  Mona !  And  all  the  province  is  exposed  to 
her  fury !  "  ^ 

Cineas  said  nothing,  and  his  silence  gave  assent. 

"  Tell  all,"  said  Helena,  coming  up  more  closely  to  him. 
"  AH  —  what  of  the  colonies  ?  " 

"  Camulodune  has  been  taken ! " 

"  What  of  the  inhabitants  ?  " 

"  Every  soul  has  perished." 

Helena  gave  a  groan,  and  clung  to  Cineas  for  support. 
He  caught  her,  and  prevented  her  from  falling. 

"  Boadicea  knows  no  mercy,  and  shows  none,"  he  went  on 
to  say  :  "  with  her  two  daughters  she  fires  the  hearts  of  her 
followers  to  every  outrage.  You  can  imagine  all.  But  I 
will  tell  all  the  pai-ticulars  that  I  have  learned.  Yet  re- 
member that,  whatever  I  may  tell  you,  Labeo  is  safe. 

"  It  appears  that  the  chief  vengeance  of  the  Britons  was 
directed  against  Camulodune.  The  conduct  of  the  veterans 
there  toward  the  natives  had  produced  this  result.  I  need  not 
remind  you  what  that  conduct  was.  The  worst  excesses  of 
Roman  soldiers  elsewhere  were  surpassed  here.  The  place 
had  but  a  handful  of  soldiers  when  the  natives  rose  in  re- 
bellion. Alarm  and  panic  spread  through  the  city  when  thej' 
heard  the  news.  The  story  that  has  come  here  relates  a 
great  number  of  supernatural  incidents,  which  I  will  tell  yci 
so  as  to  give  it  to  you  exactly  as  I  have  heard  it.  They 
were  these :  —  The  statue  of  Victory  fell  down  without 
cause.  Women  rushed  frantically  about,  and  announced 
impending  ruin.  In  the  council-chamber  voices  were  heard 
with  the  British  accent ;  the  theatre  was  filled  with  savage 
bowlings ;  the  image  of  a  colony  in  ruins  was  seen  in  the 
water  near  the  mouth  of  the  T^hames ;  the  sea  was  purple 


V 


The  Toung  Athenian, 


17 


with  blood  ;  and  at  the  ebb  of  the  tide  human  figures  were 
traced  in  the  sand.  Y. 

"  All  these  portents  were  described  to  one  another  among 
the  people  of  both  races,  with  many  other  exaggerations. 
The  colonists  were  filled  with  despair,  and  the  Britons  with 
triumph.  The  people  of  Camulodune  sent  off  to  Catus 
Decianus,  the  procurator,  for  a  reinforcement.  He  sent 
about  two  hundred  poorly-armed  men.  The  veterans  in 
Camulodune  managed  badly.  The  people  became  panic- 
stricken  ;  and  in  the  midst  of  this  the  Britons  took  the 
town,  put  all  to  the  sword,  and  finally  captured  the  temple 
where  a  resistance  had  been  made.  A  few  fugitives  es- 
caped, and  carried  the  awful  tidings  to  London." 

Helena  had  remained  perfectly  silent  during  this  narra- 
tive, listening  with  feverish  and  breathless  interest. 

"  I  cannot  understand,"  she  said,  at  last, "  how  our  soldiers 
were  so  badly  managed.  It  gives  small  hope  to  me,"  she 
added,  in  a  faint  voice. 

"  Petilius  Cerealis  marched  with  the  ninth  legion  to  the 
relief  of  the  place,"  continued  Cineas  ;  "  but  he  was  routed. 
The  infantry  were  cut  to  pieces,  and  the  general  escaped  with 
the  cavalry  only." 

Helena  looked  at  her  brother  with  deep  and  sorrowful 


meaning. 


«  O  Cineas  !  " 

This  was  the  worst  news  of  all.  It  seemed  like  a  death 
blow  to  her  hopes  ;  for  it  was  not  a  scattered  detachment 
that  had  been  lost,  but  an  entire  legion. 

'  It  was  rashness  —  it  was  madness,"  said  Cineas,  under- 
standing his  sister's  thought,  "  to  meet  myriads  of  savages 
with  one  legion.  Suetonius  is  a  general  of  a  diflferent  stamp. 
He  will  take  vengeance  for  all ;  and  thoroughly  too." 

"  No,  no,  he  will  be  shut  up  in  Mona ! "  said  Helena,  ob- 
stinate in  her  sorrow.  She  shuddered  as  she  thought  of 
what  might  be  in  store  for  her  husband. 

"  If  that  were  so,"  said  Cineas,  quietly,  "  there  ai-e  fifty 
2* 


mill 


'T^ 


"^W 


i8 


TAe  Toung  Athe7uan. 


f 


generals  that  would  gladly  undertake  to  relieve  him.  But 
think  for  a  moment  what  kind  of  a  man  Suetonius  is.  Why, 
if  he  were  shut  up  in  Ultima  Thule,  he  would  force  a  way 
for  himself  back,  and  bring  his  army  with  him.  No  Roman 
general  need  fear  disaster.  All  those  who  have  met  with 
misfortunes  have  incurred  them  by  their  own  folly.  But  I 
will  go  on  and  tell  the  rest.  The  Britons,  after  defeating 
Cerealis,  rolled  on  like  a  torrent,  engulfing  everything. 
They  are  advancing  -now  toward  Verulam  and  London. 
Decianus  has  fled  from  Britain  and  is  now  in  Gaul." 

"  Fled !  the  procurator  fled ! "  cried  Helena,  in  amazement. 
"  Yes ;  most  of  the  troops,  you  know,  are  with  Suetonius." 
"Why  cannot  he  collect  those  who  are  scattered  in  the 
garrisons  ?     Oh,  the  coward !  the  utter  coward  !     After  stir- 
ring up  the  wretched  barbarians  to  madness,  he  dreads  their 
vengeance.     First  a  ruffian,  then  a  coward."     And  Helena 
paced  up  and  down  in  her  restless  and  excited  mood,  chafing 
and  fretting,  and  finding  some  relief  in  her  indignation  at 
Cerealis. 
After  a  time,  she  came  back  to  Cineas  and  said,  — 
"  Cineas,  if  the  procurator  has  fled,  there  is  no  hope  for 
Suetonius." 

"  Hope  —  why,  there  is  certainty,"  said  Cineas,  in  as  con- 
fident a  tone  as  he  could  assume.  "  Think  for  a  moment : 
a  large  number  of  military  posts  yet  remain.  These  the 
Britons  have  not  touched.  Their  garrisons  can  be  collected 
into  a  large  army.  The  Britons  cannot  carry  on  a  siege. 
They  are  too  impatient.  If  they  do  not  take  a  place  at  the 
first  onset,  they  pass  on  to  a  weaker  one.  All  that  is  left 
for  Suetonius  is  to  march  back,  to  rally  to  his  standard  the 
scattered  garrisons,  and  then  march  against  the  rebels.  And 
tell  me,  what  oliance  will  they  have  if  once  a  Roman  army 
comes  against  them  under  such  a  general  ?  I  tell  you,"  — 
and  his  voice  grew  more  confident  as  he  went  on,  —  "I  tell 
you,  there  is  only  one  result  possible,  —  ruin  to  the  rebels. 
Ruin  —  utter,  complete,  total !  " 


V. 


The  Young  Athenian. 


19 


There  was  now  a  long  silence.  Brother  and  sister  stood 
near  to  each  other.  Helena  was  occupied  with  her  own 
thoughts.  Cineas  refrained  from  disturbing  them.  He  had 
said  all  that  he  could. 

The  sun  had  risen  and  was  illuminating  the  magnificent 
prospect.  There  lay  Campania,  —  a  vast  plain,  green  with 
verdure,  rich  with  groves  and  orchards,  dotted  with  innu- 
merable houses,  increasing  in  their  multitude  till  they  were 
consolidated  into  the  city  itself.  There  wound  the  Tiber 
through  the  plain,  passing  on  till  it  was  lost  in  the  distance. 
There  appeared 

"The  Latian  coast  where  sprung  the  epic  war, 
'Arms  and  the  man,'  whose  reascending  star 
Rose  o'er  an  empire;  and  upon  the  right 
Tally  reposed  from  Rome;  and  where  yon  bar 
Of  girdling  mountains  intercepts  the  sight, 
The  Sabine  farm  was  tilled,  —  the  weary  bard's  delight." 

After  a  while,  Helena,  in  her  restless  and  troubled  spirits, 
began  to  pace  the  portico  as  before.  Cineas  joined  her  and 
walked  by  her  side.     Both  walked  for  a  time  in  silence. 

As  they  passed  the  door,  a  figure  darted  back  as  though 
to  elude  observation.  He  then  went  into  the  atrium ;  and,  as 
Cineas  and  Helena  passed  up  and  down,  he  managed  to  sta- 
tion himself  so  as  to  hear  the  greater  part  of  what  they  were 
saying.  His  complexion  was  swarthy,  his  eyes  black,  pierc- 
ing, and  sinister ;  his  expression  malevolent  and  cunning. 
He  was  very  large  in  stature,  with  powerful  limbs,  and  his 
dress  indicated  the  rank  of  household  steward.  This  was 
the  man  who  was  acting  the  spy  upon  these  two. 

After  a  long  pause,  Cineas  said,  "  "Well,  I  suppose  I  need 
not  ask  you  what  you  are  thinking  of. 

"I  am  thinking  of  Lucius,"  said  Helena,  with  a  heavy 
sigh.  And  then  she  half  said  and  half  sang  to  herself  some 
mournful  lines  froin  a  Greek  chorus,  — 

"  Whom  ceaselessly  awaiting, 
Binlewcd  with  tears  I  go  ; 


^* 


20 


J 


The  Toung  Athenian. 


M 


111;  I 


My  sad  heart  ever  bearing 
Its  crushing  weight  of  woe." 

"  Think,  Helena,"  said  Cineas,  "  of  what  follows  in  the 
same  song ;  let  this  at  least  be  your  xiomfort,  if  you  will  not 
believe  my  assurances ;  you  know  the  words  as  well  as  I,"  — 

"  Fear  not,  my  child,  be  not  afraid; 

Great  Zeus  on  high  remains ; 
All  things  he  sees  with  eye  divine, 
And  over  all  he  reigns." 

"  Zeus ! "  said  Helena,  mournfully ;  "  ah  !  there  is  the 
difficulty.  My  Zeus  is  the  Zeus  of  philosopliy,  the  Supreme 
One,  the  inconceivable,  the  unapproachable.  All  my  life  I 
have  been  taught  to  adore  Him,  to  worship  Him  with  awful 
reverence.  But  do  you  not  see  what  an  immeasurable  dis- 
tance arises  to  my  sight,  between  me  and  Him  ?  O  Cineas, 
there  is  something  after  all  in  the  vulgar  superstitions  which 
makes  me  envy  those  who  believe  in  them.  See  how  the 
poor  and  illitei'ate  man  takes  his  God  to  himself,  and  prays  to 
him,  and  is  comforted  while  he  prays.  The  common  sailor, 
in  a  storm,  makes  his  vow  to  his  patron  deity,  and  feels  com- 
fort; he  thinks  that  he  will  finally  escape,  and  hang  up 
his  votive  ta,blet.  But  here  am  I  in  a  worse  storm,  with  no 
one  to  whom  1  can  look,  or  make  a  vow." 

"  Now,"  said  Cineas, "  you  forget  yourself.  What !  would 
you  give  up  your  own  lofty  conception  of  the  one  true  God, 
for  all  the  silly  fables  of  the  vulgar  reUgion  ?  Let  them 
keep  their  impure  deities,  their  Apollo,  their  Neptune,  their 
Mars,  and  their  Hercules.  We  have  been  taught  better, 
and  can  adore  the  great  God  of  the  Universe." 

"  Ah,  but  in  sorrow,  in  sorrow,  Cineas.  How  can  we  get  to 
him  ?  Can  we  believe  that  he  will  really  notice  us  ?  Tlie 
poor  wife  of  some  private  soldier  can  perform  her  sacrifice, 
and  pray  to  her  god,  who  she  thinks  will  help  her.  ]iut 
how  can  I  venture  to  tell  my  petty  troubles  to  the  Eter- 
nal One,  or  expect  that  he  will  hear  me  ?  No  !  No !  Do 
you  not  remember  these  words,  — 


lli'i 


The  Toung  Athenian. 


21 


" '  Sccst  thou  not,  my  friend,  'v 

How  feeble  and  how  slow 

And  like  a  dream  they  go,  '-^ 

This  poor  blind  manhood  drifted  from  its  end, 
And  how  no  mortal  wranglings  can  confuse 
The  harmony  of  Zeus  ?  " ' 

"  My  ILilena,"  said  Cineas,  gently,  "  your  present  troubles 

make  you  forget  all  the  lessons  of  your  youth.      Why  do  you 

cliooso  the  most  despairing  utterances  of  the  poets  ?     Have 

you  forgotten  all  our  childhood  and  youth,  and  the  sublime 

^     teachings  of  our  glorious  Theophilus  ?     Do  you  not  remem- 

I     ber  the  divine  teachings  of  our  revered  master,  about  the 

i     nature  of  God,  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  of  holiness, 

and  of  prayer  ?    Dearest  sister,  never  have  I  ceased  to  be 

I     grateful  for  my  youth,  when  I  had  such  a  teacher  to  fill 

^     me  with  such  thoughts,  and  you,  too,  for  my  associate  and 

;i    companion.    When  Labeo  took  you  away,  I  felt  that  I  had 

given  up  the  half  of  my  nature ;  since  then,  I  have  trifd 

to  keep  up  that  ai'dent,  youthful  enthusiasm,  that  confidence 

in  the  Supreme,  which  we  used  to  feel  together.      How  is  it 

with  you  ?     Have  you  lost  it  ?  " 

"  Ah,  Cineas,  I  have  had  a  very  different  life  from  that 
of  tlie  enthusiastic  girl  whom  you  used  to  make  the  com- 
panion of  your  own  aspirations  and  day-dreams.  I  have 
had  a  very  different  life  from  that  which  1  used  to  lead  in 
Athens." 

"  Do  you  call  it  dreaming,  Helena  ?  "  asked  Ciueas,  with 
mild  reproach  in  his  voice,  —  "all  those  aspirations  after  the 
good  and  the  beautiful,  that  long  search  after  the  divine  ?  " 

"  Forgive  mo,  dearest  brother,"  said  Helena,  laying  her 
hand  gently  on  his  arm,  and  looking  up  with  glistening  eyes ; 
"  I  did  not  mean  that  at  all ;  I  meant  that,  in  my  married 
Hfe,  I  have  had  no  time  for  philosophy.  As  a  Roman 
matron,  I  have  had  to  take  my  part  in  maintaining  the  honors 
of  the  house  of  Sulpicius  Labeo.  I  have  had  to  travel 
much.  I  have  lived  in  Gaul,  and  especially  Britain,  for 
years.    I  have  a  son,  whom  I  must  train.     Does  this  leave 


./ 


22 


The  Young  Athenian. 


\  ^ 


me  much  time,  dearest  Cineas,  for  philosophical  abstraction  ? 
But  yet  I  have  never  forgotten  those  early  teachings.  I 
honor  and  lo»e  the  doctrines  of  the  noble  Theophilus.  Who 
could  forget  "  The  Master  "  ?  I  never  can,  and  I  cherish 
deep  within  my  memory  the  noble  sentiments  which  he  used 
to  teach  us.  I  love  Plato  and  Pindar  and  iEschylus,  and 
Sophocles  better  than  ever,  and  prize  more  than  before 
those  noble  passages  to  which  he  used  to  direct  our  chief 
attention.  I  know  large  portions  of  them  by  heart  now,  as 
well  as  I  used  to  in  Athens.  And  yet,  dearest  brother,  in 
this  life  of  mine  and  among  all  my  occupations,  all  these 
give  me  no  comfort.  I  know  not  how  to  approach  the  Su- 
preme, and  the  great  object  of  my  life  is  how  to  find  out  the 
way.  Can  you  tell  me  ?  Perhaps  you  can  rid  me  of  my 
greatest  trouble.  If  you  can,  then  tell  me.  You  have  ad- 
vanced while  I  have  stood  still;  yo;;  have  preserved  all 
your  youthful  enthusiasm  for  the  Divine  and  the  Holy. 
What  way  is  there  ?     Let  me  know  it." 

"You  overrate  my  powers,  dearest  Helena,"  said  Cineas, 
with  deep  thoughtfulness.  "  In  a  matter  like  this  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  find  anything  like  certainty.  But  I  will  tell  you  all 
that  I  can. 

"  You  believe,  don't  you,  that  God  is  wise  and  benevolent  ? 
He  created  all  things.  Is  it  not  natural  that  he  should  at 
least  be  willing  to  attend  to  the  interests  and  well-being  of 
his  creatures  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  so,"  said  Helena,  musingly  ;  "  that  is,  in  a  gen- 
eral way.  And  yet  this  gives  no  comfort  to  the  private 
individual." 

"  If  he  is  just  and  benevolent,  don't  you  think  that  he 
would  be  willing  to  advance  the  interests  and  well-being  of 
even  one  individual  ?  " 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  may  be  so." 

"  He  is  present  everywhere,  and  knows  all  things.  Re- 
member what  Socrates  says  in  Xenophon :  '  The  Divine 
One  is  so  great  and  of  such  a  nature  that  he  sees  and  hears 


v^ 


The  Young  Athenian, 


23 


iiieas, 

diffi- 

you  all 


a  gcn- 


Re- 

Divine 
d  hears 


all  tilings  at  the  same  time,  and  is  everywhere  present  aud 
takes  care  of  all  things  at  the  same  time.' "  ^^ 

"  Yes ;  that  is  true." 

"  Then  he  sees  and  hears  us  at  this  moment.  At  this 
very  moment,  dearest  sister,  he  is  taking  care  of  you  in 
Italy  and  Labeo  in  Britain." 

"There  is  some  comfort  in  that  thought,"  said  Helena, 
after  a  pause. 

"  He  is  our  Maker,  the  Author  of  our  being,  and  *  we  are 
his  offspring,'  that  is,  his  children.  "Why,  then,  should  not 
this  Being  be  willing  to  hear  us  both,  or  either  of  us,  at  this 
time  ?  Can  you  find  anything  better  than  this  in  the  vulgar 
superstitions  ?  Can  we  not  rely  on  such  a  One  as  this,  and 
say  in  our  hearts  to  him,  '  Thou  didst  make  me.  In  all  my 
sorrow  I  turn  to  thee,  and  ask  thee  for  help.'  Is  not  this 
better  than  a  vow  to  Neptune  or  Mercury  ?  " 

"  But  the  ignorant  and  superstitious  feel  comfort  even  in 
making  the  vow,"  objected  Helena. 

"  To  that  I  will  only  say,  in  the  words  of  Plato,  *  The 
Deity  is  not  to  be  corrupted  by  bribes.  He  has  regard  only 
to  our  souls,  and  not  at  all  to  our  sacrifices  and  proces- 
sions.' " 

"  Do  you  believe,  then,  that  we  may  ask  him  for  every- 
thing?" 

"  Not  at  all.  He  is  all-wise,  and  may  not  see  fit  to  grant 
it.  He  has  his  own  purposes.  Submission  to  his  will  is  the 
first  and  highest  duty  of  every  one  who  prays  to  him.  Do 
you  not  remember  what  Socrates  says  in  the  same  dialogue 
from  which  I  have  just  quoted :  *  If  the  God  to  whom  you 
are  going  to  pray  should  suddenly  appear  to  you,  and  should 
ask  you  before  you  had  begun  your  prayers,  if  you  would 
be  satisfied  that  he  should  grant  you  some  one  of  the  things 
we  just  spoke  of;  or  that  he  should  permit  you  to  make 
your  own  request;  which  would  you  think  most  safe  and 
advantageous  for  you  —  whether  to  receive  what  he  should 
give  you,  or  to  obtain  what  you  should  ask  from  him  ?  ' " 


! 


24 


The  Young  Athenian. 


i- 


w\ 


ii 


j 

iii!l 


"  Tliere  is  but  one  answer  to  that  question.  Tlie  All-wiso 
knowetli  best.  — 

"  '  Oh  never,  never,  let  me  raise 
This  feeble  will  of  mine, 
To  oppose  the  might  of  Him  who  rulea 
All  things  with  power  divine ! '  " 

"  Therefore,"  said  Cineas,  "  if  you  accept  that  solemn 
prayer  from  -^schylus  you  will  take  still  more  readily  that 
which  Socrates  quotes.  It  is  the  truest  and  the  best  for  us. 
You  remember  it :  *  Great  God !  Give  us  the  good  things 
that  are  necessary  for  us,  whether  we  ask  them  or  not ;  and 
keep  evil  things  from  us  even  when  we  ask  them  from  thee!'" 

"  But,  Cineas,  are  there  no  difficulties  ?  Can  all  come  to 
God  ?  Is  there  no  preparation  ?  Will  he  hear  all  men  in- 
discriminately ?  " 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Cineas,  thoughtfully,  "  that  there  must 
be  preparation." 

"  Without  doubt ;  but  of  what  kind  ?  " 

"Deep  meditation  within  the  soul,  and  profound  abstrac- 
tion for  tht.  time  from  all  external  things,  together  with  the 
deepest  reverence  and  the  most  humble  submission." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Helena ;  "  and  you  know  what  Socrates 
says  here,  since  you  refer  to  him  so  much,  for  he  says  that 
the  purification  of  the  soul  is  this,  —  to  accustom  itself  to  re- 
tire and  shut  itself  up,  renouncing  all  commerce  with  the 
body  as  much  as  possible,  and  to  live  by  itself  without  be- 
ing chained  to  the  body.  Now,  for  Socrates  and  Plato,  and 
the  grave  Theophilus,  this  was  practicable.  If  I  were  like 
you,  dearest  Cineas,  it  might  be  possible.  If  I  were  a  great 
philosopher,  like  Seneca,  this  would  be  the  way  for  me  to 
care  for  my  soul,  so  as  to  keep  it  pure  before  God.  But  I 
am  a  weak  woman,  in  the  midst  of  maternal  cares.  To 
separate  myself  from  these  cares,  and  live  a  life  of  medita- 
tive philosophy,  would  be  wrong  —  wrong  to  my  child  — 
wrong  to  my  husband.  Don't  you  see  the  painful  dilemma 
in  which  I  am  placed  ?  " 


The  Toting  Athenian. 


\. 


35 


.r" 


must 


"  I  see  it,"  answered  Cineas ;  "  but  you  can  do  this  par- 
tially, at  least,  so  as  to  prevent  them  from  engrossing  all 
your  thoughts.  '  The  soul  first  of  all,  then  all  other  things.' 
So  said  '  The  Master.' " 

"  Ah  !  you  don't  understand  my  life.  All  this  is  possible 
for  you,  but  not  for  me.  Philosophical  abstraction  for  me  — 
a  Roman  matron  —  impossible." 

"  Not  quite  that,"  said  Cineas.  "  A  virtuous  life,  like 
yours,  passed  in  the  performance  of  the  best  and  highest 
duties  to  all  around,  is  of  itself  a  life-long  purification  of  the 
soul." 

"  I  try  to  do  my  best,"  said  Helena,  meekly.  "  And  yet 
I  find  that  in  my  intense  love  for  my  child  and  husband  I 
lose  all  thoughts  of  the  Deity.  He  remains  to  me  a  majes- 
tic vision,  a  sublime  sentiment.  How  can  I  draw  near? 
Oh  that  I  could  find  a  way  to  him !  I  think  life  would  be 
doubly  sweet  if  1  could  find  a  way  of  communion  between 
him  and  my  poor  self.  I  adore  the  Deity,  but  fear  him. 
I  know  not  how  to  address  him,  or  even  by  what  name." 

She  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  continued,  in  a  sweet, 
low  chant,  murmuring  words  from  those  majestic  choruses 
which  were  so  dear  to  her : 


"  0  Zeus !  —  whoevei  he  may  be  — 
If  to  be  thus  invoked  be  pleasing  to  him, 
By  this  I  call  on  him. 
For  weighing  all  things  well, 
When  I  in  truth  would  cast  away 
The  unavailing  burden  from  my  soul, 
I  can  conjecture  none  to  help  save  Zeus." 

"  Go  on,"  said  Cineas,   "  and  see  what  the   same  one 
says,"  —  and  he  himself  took  up  the  strain  : 

" '  The  One  who  leadeth  mortals 
On  wisdom's  way ; 
Who  bringetli  knowledge  out  of  suffering.' 

"Ah!   my  Helena,  I  have  often  thought  that  thus  the 
Deity  guides  us  '  on  wisdom's  way,'  bringing  for  us  '  knowl- 


'  1 


26 


The  Koung  Athenian. 


)i 


edge  out  of  suffering."  I  firmly  believe  that  our  desire  to 
know  him  is  pleasant  to  him ;  and  among  all  the  things 
that  purify  the  soul,  the  very  best  is  the  aspiration  after 
God.  If  we  desire  him,  this  of  itself  proves  that  we  are 
prepared  to  address  him.  Friends  associate  with  one 
another  when  they  have  sympathies  in  common.  The  de- 
sire to  approach  to  God  shows  that  in  some  respects  we  are 
like  him.  Now  like  cleaves  to  like,  and  where  there  is  an 
aspiration  after  God,  there  is  an  approach  to  him." 

"  Yes ;  but  will  God  come  to  us  ?  What  matters  it  how 
much  we  may  asi)ire  ?  We  can  never  reach  him.  Still 
he  remains  inaccessible." 

"  The  approach  is  something,  nevertheless." 

"  But  in  my  condition  it  does  not  avail.  Alas !  Cineas,  T 
fear  the  longings  of  my  soul  cannot  be  gratified.  If  I 
but  knew  him,  I  might  go  to  him;  but  how  can  I  go  to 
hira ;  how  can  I  address  him  ?  " 

"  My  early  life,"  she  continued,  after  a  pause,  "  and  your 
companionship,  and  the  instructions  of  '  the  Master,'  excited 
irrepressible  desires  within  my  mind,  —  ideas  and  thoughts 
that  can  never  be  subdued.  You  pass  beyond  me,  brother 
dearest,"  she  added,  in  mournful  tones  ;  "  beyond  me.  You 
are  going  onward*  and  upward  in  your  soul's  flight,  while  I 
linger  near  the  starting-place.  You  already  catch  glimpses 
of  the  Deity,  while  I  seek  after  him  in  vain.  I  know  not 
how  to  address  him,  and  if  I  did,  my  first  words  would  be 
'  Great  God !  teach  me  how  to  pray  to  thee  ! '  " 

And  now,  as  she  spoke  these  words,  a  wonderful  thing  oc- 
curred. In  their  walk  along  the  portico,  they  often  went  to 
and  fro,  and  at  this  moment  they  reached  the  western  ex- 
tremity, near  which  was  a  small  room  which  opened  out  to- 
ward the  front.  From  this  room  there  came  the  sound  of 
a  sweet,  childish  voice,  but  in  a  strangely  slow  and  solemn 
tone. 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Helena,  laying  her  hand  on  her  brother's 
arm. . 


m 


tw 


V 


I 


The  Toting  Athenian.       \  ay 

And  then  slowly  and  solemnly,  in  that  sweet,  childish 
voice,  as  if  in  direct  answer  to  the  yearning  cry  of  the 
mother,  there  came  thes(;  words  :  "» 

"  Out  Father  who  art  in  Heaven  !  Hallowed  he  thy  name. 
Thy  kingdom  come.  Thy  will  he  done  on  earth  as  it  is  in 
heaven.  Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread ;  and  forgive  us 
our  trespasses  as  we  forgive  them  that  trespass  against  us. 
And  lead  us  not  into  temptation^  hut  del.'ver  us  from  evil : 
for  thine  is  the  kingdom,  the  power  and  the  glory,  forever 
and  ever  /     Amen  !  " 

Tears  burst  from  Helena's  eyes. 

"  What  words  are  these  !  "  she  cried,  —  «  '  Our  Father ; ' " 
and  clasping  her  hands,  she  stood  listening,  looking  upward 
at  the  same  time,  as  though  from  a  half-formed  thought  that 
she  might  thus  see  that  "  Father." 


w..„,. 


V 


J 


li: 


n 


III. 

ISAAC. 

ITEN  the  prayer  ceased,  they  waited  in  silence  for 
more.  But  no  more  words  of  prayer  were  lieard. 
The  voice  of  tlie  child  laughing  merrily  soon  arose, 
and  Cineas  looked  up  with  a  sigh. 

"  Ah,  Helena,"  said  he,  "  I  have  heard  some- 
thing  which   is   better   than   all   my   arguments. 
"Where  did  Marcus  learn  that  ?  " 
"  I  don't  know,  unless  it  was  from  the  nurse." 
"The  nurse!" 

Cineas  folded  his  arms,  and  stood  fixed  in  thought. 
Helena  silently  left  him  and  went  in.  After  a  while  he 
looked  for  her  and  saw  that  she  had  gone. 

"  Yes,"  he  murmured,  "  the  mother  must  have  gone  to  sol- 
ace herself  with  that  sweet  boy.  But  the  nurse,  —  where 
did  she  learn  that  ?  " 

He  walked  up  and  down  for  a  little  while,  and  then  saun- 
tered into  the  house,  and  reclined  on  a  couch  in  the  Peristyl- 
ium.  After  a  while  Helena  came  in,  followed  by  the  boy 
Marcus  and  the  nurse.  The  boy  was  an  ethereal  creature, 
with  features  strikingly  like  those  of  his  mother.  He  had 
her  spiritual  eyes  and  sweet,  expressive  mouth.  He  was 
not  more  than  seven  years  old,  and  rather  tall  for  his  age. 
He  came  bounding  up  to  his  uncle  with  the  air  of  one 
sure  of  a  welcome ;  and  Cineas  took  him  in  his  arms,  and 
pressed  him  to  his  heart,  and  looked  lovingly  at  his  beauti- 
ful face,  and  said  a  thousand  caressing  words.  After  a 
(28) 


Isaac. 


29 


he 


short  time  he  went  running  out,  and  singing  up  nnd  down 
the  portico. 

The  nurse  remained.  Cineas  had  noticed  her  hcfore,  but 
now  lie  n^gardf'd  her  with  very  unusual  interest.  "  Where," 
he  thou;j;lit,  "  did  that  prayer  originate  ?  Had  those  mar- 
vellous words  been  tiuight  by  her?  Where  did  Aw,  learn 
thoiu  ?  Did  she  know  their  deep  significance  ?  "  He  in- 
wardly determined  to  find  out  from  her. 

She  was  evidently  Greek ;  perhaps  from  some  of  the  isl- 
ands. Her  countenance  was  refined  and  delicate ;  and  her 
hair  a*  white  as  snow.  Her  features  in  youth  must  have 
been  unusually  beautiful,  for  now,  even  in  age,  they  had  a 
marvellous  sweetness.  Cineas  was  most  impressed  by  her 
expression.  It  was  that  of  one  who  had  suffered  profound- 
ly from  some  deep  sorrow  ;  and  yet,  though  he  had  never 
seen  a  face  which  bore  greater  traces  of  grief,  he  could  not 
think  that  she  was  sad.  It  was  rather  the  impression  of  a 
sadness  that  was  past ;  overcome  by  an  unalterable  and  al- 
most divine  patience.  It  was  the  face  of  Niobe,  resigned  to 
her  lot,  and  acquiescing  in  the  will  of  Heaven.  "  Could  not 
this,"  he  thought,  "  be  a  purified  soul?  "  The  subject  of  the 
late  conversation  occurred  to  him ;  and  he  thought  that  here 
was  a  soul  which  had  separated  itself  from  material  things  ; 
here  was  one  that  might  hold  communion  with  the  Supreme ; 
one  that  might  offer  up  that  sublime  prayer  which  he  had 
heard  from  Marcus.  He  wondered  what  had  caused  that 
awful  sadness,  now  so  completely  conquered ;  and  what  se- 
cret power  enabled  her  so  to  turn  bitterness  into  sweet 
peace.  Those  eyes  —  calm  as  the  eternal  gaze  of  the 
Egyptian  Sphinx  —  showed  no  trace  of  present  passion  or 
impatience.  He  thought  that  it  could  not  have  been  philos- 
ophy which  thus  had  strengthened  her,  for  he  never  knew  a 
woman  —  or  had  heard  of  one  —  who  had  risen  to  that 
height  of  philosophic  serenity  to  which  a  few  gifted  men  had 
arrived. 

But  his  interest  in  this  woman  did  not  allow  him  to  neg- 
3* 


.  inw"iii      11 


J 


30 


Isaac. 


I:!    :     ■  ll 


ill 


\     '1 


n 


l:  <i    J 


Ik 


Icct  pressing  duties  which  were  before  him.  In  spite  of  his 
assurances  to  Helena,  he  feU  that  the  situation  in  Britain 
was  a  most  critical  one.  That  army  might  never  emerge 
,-/  '  from  the  gloom  that  surrounded  it.  Labeo  might  never  re- 
turn. 

About  a  year  before  this  time,  when  it  was  determined  to 
crush  the  Druid  religion,  Labeo  had  sent  his  wife  and  child 
away  from  Britain  to  Rome.  When  he  did  this,  he  felt  that 
a  crisis  was  at  hand.  He  understood  the  fierce,  proud  na- 
ture  of  the  Britons,  and  knew  that  they  would  make  a 
desperate  resistance.  He  acted  as  though  there  was  danger 
before  him.  He  made  a  will,  and  appointed  Cineas  the 
guardian  of  th^  boy  in  the  event  of  his  own  death.  He 
gave  the  documents  to  Helena,  with  instructions  to  hand 
them  over  to  Cineas.  This  she  did  without  knowing  what 
they  were. 

When  the  absence  of  Suetonius  had  been  somewhat  pro- 
tracted, Helena  had  told  Cineas  of  her  anxiety,  and  he  had 
at  once  left  Athens  for  Rome.  Other  circumstances  influ- 
enced him  in  going,  but  this  was  the  immediate  cause.  The 
brother  and  sister  h-'d  kept  up  a  correspondence  ever  since 
the  w^rriage  of  the  latter;  but  they  had  never  met  during 
the  whole  time. 

The  joy  which  Helena  felt  at  meeting  with  her  beloved 
brother  for  a  time  lessened  her  sadness ;  and  his  encourag- 
ing words  taught  her  to  hope  for  the  best.  As  for  Cineas,  he 
at  once  determined  to  know  how  the  affairs  of  the  estate 
w  ;re  managed,  and  do  what  he  could  to  promote  its  welfare. 
He  had  not  been  there  more  than  two  weeks  when  the  sad 
news  ca  ne  mentioned  in  the  previous  chapter. 

One  man  nad  excited  his  deepest  distrust  at  the  very  out- 
set. This  was  the  steward  Hegio.  A  Syrian  by  birth,  his 
origin  was  base,  and  he  had  been  a  slave  when  he  first  came 
to  Rome.  By  some  means  he  had  elevated  himself,  and  had 
been  recommended  to  Labeo,  who  had  given  him  the  whole 
charge  of  the  estate.     Cineas  had  no  sooner  seen  liim  than 


'A 


^  •! 


li 


^ 


Isaac, 


31 


he  knew  that  he  was  a  vilhiin.  His  cunning,  leering  face 
and  furtive  eye  excited  the  abhorrence  of  the  young  Athe- 
nian. Moreover,  the  steward  was  not  particularly  respectful. 
There  was  a  half-concealed  impertinence  in  his  .-.anner 
toward  Cineas,  which  the  latter  determined  to  chastise.  At 
any  rate,  he  felt  that  this  was  not  the  man  to  control  such 
impoi'tant  interests. 

He  had  come  to  the  determination  to  have  an  interview 
with  this  steward,  and  expel  him  from  his  office  without 
ceremony.  On  the  morning  of  this  day,  he  sent  a  summons 
to  him  to  come  to  him  ;  but,  to  his  surprise,  found  that  he 
had  gone  to  Rome.  Unwilling  to  disturb  Helena,  he  went 
to  see  the  librarian,  a  man  of  whom  he  had  formed  a  high 
opinion,  although  he  was  only  a  slave. 

This  man  was  a  Jew,  named  Isaac,  whom  Labeo  had 
picked  up  in  Syria,  under  somewhat  remarkable  circum- 
stances. He  had  been  concerned  in  a  violent  outbreak  of 
his  countrymen,  and  had  been  condemned  to  death.  Labeo, 
however,  for  some  reason  or  other,  had  pitied  the  poor 
wretch,  and  had  obtained  his  pardon,  and  saved  him  from 
the  agonies  of  crucifixion.  Thereupon  tlie  Jew  attached 
himself  to  his  master  and  the  family  with  the  deepest  affec- 
tion and  fidelity.  For  six  years  he  had  followed  them  in 
various  places  ;  and  every  year  had  only  added  to  the  high 
regard  which  they  had  formed  for  him.  When  the  family 
came  to  Rome,  Isaac  accompanied  them,  and  from  the  first 
had  sus})ected  Hegio.  He  kept  all  his  feelings  to  himself, 
however ;  and  it  was  not  till  the  arrival  of  Cineas  that  he 
opened  his  mouth  on  the  subject. 

He  was  a  tall  man,  of  majestic  presence,  with  strongly 
marked  Jewish  features,  His  beard  was  long,  his  eyes  in- 
tensely lustrous  and  piercing,  and  his  forehead  was  marked 
with  deep  lines.  His  education  had  been  of  the  most  varied 
character,  and  his  great  natural  abilities  had  enabled  him  to 
make  the  most  of  his  advantages.  He  was  familiar  with 
Greek  literature  and  Latin  also ;  he  was  an  elegant  scribe, 


"7 


32 


Isaac, 


iiiilri' 


ih     'II! 


1'    ;   > 
liii 


'^ 


und  ail  accurate  accountant.  Such  was  the  man  upon  wliom 
Cineas  now  placed  liis  chief  reliance. 

As  he  entered,  the  stern  features  of  the  Jew  relaxed  into 
a  smile  of  welcome.  He  was  at  his  post  in  the  Ubrary.  It 
was  an  elegant  room,  surrounded  with  compartments  which 
were  divided  into  pigeon-holes,  in  each  of  which  the  scrolls 
were  placed.  Over  these  compartments  were  marble  busts 
of  authors,  and  on  a  large  table  in  the  centre  there  was  the 
usual  apparatus  for  writing,  binding,  polishing,  and  orna- 
menting the  volumes. 

Cineas  glanced  at  his  work,  and  saw  that  he  was  engaged 
in  transcribing  Homer. 

"  Isaac,"  said  he,  in  a  friendly  tone,  "  what  a  wonderful 
book  this  is  1  For  I  know  not  how  many  ages  it  has  inspired 
the  mind  and  animated  the  life  of  the  Greeks.  All  of  us 
are  familiar  with  it.  Philosophers  and  peasants,  soldiers 
and  magistrates,  all  quote  it.  The  Romans  have  nothing 
that  corresponds  with  it.  But  with  us  it  is  the  universal 
book.  We  think  Homer  and  live  Homer,  Do  you  know 
of  any  other  nation  that  has  a  book  which  fills  such  a  place 
as  this?" 

Saying  this,  he  reclined  upon  a  couch  at  one  end  of  the 
apartment,  and  looked  at  the  Jew. 

"  We  Jews,"  said  Isaac,  modestly,  "  have  a  Universal 
Book.  But  it  is  a  colic ^tion  of  all  our  writers.  It  is,  in 
fact,  our  literature.  We  all  know  it.  We  refer  to  it  always. 
It  inspires  our  hearts  and  guides  our  lives.  We  live  it  and 
quote  it  much  more  than  you  do  Homer." 

Cineas  was  surprised  at  hearing  this,  but  a  moment's 
thought  made  him  see  that  it  was  not  so  strange  a  thing  that 
a  nation  should  have  a  literature  which  they  prized  highly. 

"  What  books  are  these  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Our  sacred  writings,"  replied  Isaac. 

"  Are  they  poetic  ?  " 

"  They  consist  both  of  poetry  and  prose." 

"  Are  there  any  epic  poems  among  them  ?  "  said  Cineas, 


Isaac. 


33 


somewhat  amused  at  the  idea  of  a  barbarian  epic,  and  imag- 
ining wiiat  a  grotesque  viohition  of  all  the  regular  rules  such 
a  production  would  be. 

"  No,"  said  Isaac.  "  We  have  no  epic  poem.  Yet  our 
earliest  history  is  not  unlike  a  grand  epic  in  its  subject.  Its 
theme  is  the  highest  and  most  important  conceivable.  It 
tells  how  the  universe  was  framed  by  the  Almiglity ;  and 
how  man  was  born.  It  traces  the  events  of  the  earliest  ages, 
and  shows  how  all  mankind  have  come  from  one  source.  It 
narx-ates  the  wonderful  origin  of  our  nation,  and  its  marvel- 
lous history.  Perhaps  some  day  you  may  wish  to  read  that 
story.  I  can  assure  you  that,  even  to  a  mind  like  yours, 
there  is  much  that  can  afford  instruction,  and  excite  admira- 
tion. And  do  not  think  it  a  mere  outburst  of  national  prej- 
udice, if  I  say  that  the  man  who  penned  this  history  possessed 
a  greater  genius  than  Homer,  and  his  book  is  more  to  us 
than  the  Iliad  to  the  Greeks." 

"  He  may  have  been  a  great  genius,"  said  Cineas,  good- 
naturedly  ;  "  but  he  didn't  write  an  epic  poem,  and  so  lie 
cannot  very  properly  be  put  in  comparison  with  Homer.  I 
should  like  very  much  indeed,  however,  to  see  the  book  of 
which  you  speak.  I  have  heard  something  about  it.  "Was 
it  not  translated  into  Greek  at  Alexandria  ?  " 

"  It  was.  But  I  need  not  say  that  to  us,  who  know  the 
original,  the  translation  does  not  possess  the  same  beauties." 

"  Of  course  not ;  especially  in  poetry.  That  cannot  be 
translated.  Look  at  Cicero  translating  ^schylus.  Was 
there  ever  a  more  mournful  spectacle?  Even  Catullus 
failed  with  a  few  verses  of  Sappho." 

"  And  perverted  it,"  added  Isaac.  "  No ;  poetry  cannot 
be  translated.  The  delicate  aroma  is  lost  when  you  attempt 
to  transmute  it." 

"You  have  spoken  of  prose,"  said  Cineas,  returning  to 
the  subject.  "  What  kind  of  poetry  have  you  ?  Is  there 
any  dramatic?  If  so,  what  do  you  do  about  the  Unities? 
You  cannot  have  discovered  those  rules." 


llij  H'1 

I'ii 

i'i 
ll 


I 


ir.il 


in;! 


l!   nil 


m 


34 


Isaac. 


"  We  have  at  least  one  dramatic  poem,"  said  Isaac.  "  It 
is  not  for  the  pubhc  stage,  however,  but  for  the  secret 
meditation  of  the  earnest  mind.  Its  tlieme  is  of  the  most 
profound  that  can  be  entertained  by  the  mind.  In  this  re- 
spect it  resembles  the  '  Prometheus,'  and  the  '  CEdipus ' 
more  than  any  others  of  the  Greek  plays.  It  treats  of  the 
great  mystery  of  the  government  of  God.  Such,  you  know, 
is  the  theme  of  '  Prometheus.'  You  know,  also,  how  -^s- 
chylus  himself  has  failed  in  his  immense  undertaking.  The 
t  iblimest  poem  of  the  Greeks  makes  the  Supreme  Being  a 
tyrant  and  a  usurper,  himself  under  the  power  of  the  in- 
exorable fates  ;  nor  can  the  mystery  and  gloom  of  the  '  Pro- 
metheus Bound '  be  dispelled  by  the  *  Prometheus  Deliv- 
ered.' A  benevolent  being  suflPers  excruciating  torments, 
on  account  of  his  very  virtue,  at  the  hands  of  the  Supreme. 
What  is  there  more  terrible  than  this  ?  iEschylus  went  be- 
yond his  strength.  He  could  not  vindicate  the  justice  of 
the  Ruler  of  the  skies,  after  so  strongly  portraying  his  cruel 
tryanny.  Nor  is  it  better  in  the  '  CEdipus.*  A  perfectly 
innocent  man  is  drawn  helplessly  into  the  commission  of 
atrocious  crimes,  and  finally  dies  in  mysterious  agony.  In 
this,  too,  the  great  problem  is  started,  but  is  not  answered. 
Such  works  fill  the  mind  with  despair,  and  the  dark  mystery 
of  life  grows  darker. 

"  But  in  our  poem  it  is  different.  The  problem  is  pre- 
sented in  the  same  way.  A  perfectly  just  and  upright  man 
is  suddenly  involved  in  enormous  calamity.  There  is  the 
same  spectacle  of  unmerited  wrong  and  suffering,  which  ap- 
pears arbitrary  and  unjust;  the  same  things  which  tempt 
man  to  charge  his  Maker  with  cruelty,  —  to  think  the  All- 
ruler  a  wicked  and  malevolent  being.  But  here  it  is  all 
answered,  —  all  answered.  For  the  answer  is  God!  All 
is  left  to  him.  He  speaks  and  vindicates  himself  and  all  his 
acts.  And  this  is  the  only  answer,  and  must  ever  be  the 
only  one,"  continued  Isaac,  in  tones  more  mournful  than 
us val;  "the  only  one  to  him  who  asks,  '  Why  do  I  suffer? 


■SI 


"■.-'■1 

I 


Isaac. 


35 


Pro- 


" '  The  Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord  takoth  away, 
Blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord !  ' 


•s^. 


'  What !  shall  we  receive  good  at  the  hand  of  the  Lord,  and 
shall  we  not  receive  evil  ? '  " 

Cineas  had  listened  with  the  deepest  attention.  Isaac 
leaned  his  head  upon  his  hand,  and  was  silent  for  a  few  mo- 
ments. 

Cineas  then  hinted  that  he  saw  some  resemblance,  in  those 
sentiments,  to  Stoicism. 

"  Stoicism ! "  said  Isaac,  looking  up  in  surprise.  "  Far 
from  it.  It  is  the  very  opposite.  For  the  Stoics  treat  of 
man  without  reference  to  God;  but  we  look  at  God  alto- 
gether, and  lose  ourselves  in  him.  For  what  are  we  with- 
out him  ?  And  if  we  once  lose  sight  of  him,  what  remains 
but  despair?  Buf  in  him  all  things  explain  themselves. 
He  is  the  Infinite,  the  All-holy,  the  All-wise.  In  him  I  put 
my  trust." 

In  speaking  these  last  words,  Isaac's  manner  had  become 
changed.  A  deeper  tone  attached  itself  to  his  voice.  He 
seemed  rather  to  be  thinking  aloud  than  talking  to  Cineas. 
In  this  partial  abstraction  he  raised  his  eyes  with  an  ex- 
pression of  unutterable  reverence  and  devotion,  and,  looking 
upward,  he  began  a  sort  of  rhythmic  chant,  — 


"  Lord,  thou  hast  been  our  dwelling-place 
From  all  generations. 
Before  the  mountains  were  brought  forth. 
Or  ever  thou  ludst  formed  the  earth  and  the  world, 
Even  from  everlasting  to  everlasting 
Thou  art  God." 


He  ceased  ;  and,  folding  his  hands,  looked  downward  again 
in  silence. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  express  the  mingled  surprise 
and  awe  with  which  Cineas  listened  to  these  words.  All 
that  he  had  ever  heard  of  the  mysterious  knowledge  of  the 
Egyptians  and  Asiatics  came  to  his  mind.     Was  there  much 


"^/c     '  "^V—*^  ■ 


36 


Isaac. 


m 


'm 


,.!  ^1 


i 


!■' 


illijl 


^i 


like  this  in  those  sacred  poems  of  wliich  Tsaae  spoke  ?  Then, 
indeed,  liis  fond  j)nuse  was  not  undeserved. 

"That,"  said  Cineas,  "is  from  one  of  your  poets,  I  sup- 
pose.    Have  you  many  such  poems  as  this  ?  " 

"  Many,"  said  Isiuic  with  emphasis ;  "  but  not  dramatic. 
They  are  chiefly  lyrical.  Just  as  in  your  dramatic  works 
the  loftiest  sentiments  are  found  in  tlie  lyrical  parts,  so  we 
find  our  noblest  conceptions  of  God  in  these.  "We  are  a 
religious  people,  and  our  poets  were  prophets  of  God.  "With 
us,  as  with  the  Romans  formerly,  poet  and  prophet  were 
identified." 

"In  what  possible  way  may  your  lyric  poets  compare  with 
ours?"  asked  Cineas,  curiously.  "Have  you  anything  like 
our  metres  ?  " 

"  We  have  a  rhythmical  system  of  ftur  own  invention. 
In  former  times,  when  these  poems  were  written  and  sung, 
our  music  was  by  far  the  best  in  the  world." 

"  "What  are  the  subjects  of  them  ?  " 

"There  is  only  one  subject  to  them  all,"  said  Isaac;  "but, 
as  that  subject  is  infinite,  so  the  themes  of  our  songs  are 
ever-varying." 

"  What  is  that  infinite  subject  ?  "  asked  Cineas,  only  half 
understanding  him. 

"  God  ! "  said  Isaac,  slowly  and  with  a  certain  awful 
reverence  in  his  voice.  "  In  our  language  it  is  not  per- 
mitted to  utter  the  sublime  name." 

"  Your  poetry,  then,  should  be  deeply  reverential,"  said 
Cineas,  struck  with  his  manner,  and  sympathizing  with 
the  deep  feeling  evinced  by  Isaac  whenever  allusion  was 
made  to  the  Deity. 

"  I  know  of  no  such  thoughts  anywhere  else,"  said  he ; 
"  and  you  know  I  am  acquainted  to  a  moderate  extent  with 
Greek  poetry.  But,  in  all  that  I  have  ever  seen,  there  is 
nothing  like  this  all-pervading  elevation  which  distinguishes 
ours.  You  know  well  how  I  admire  the  wonderful  works 
of  the  Greek  mind;  they  are   the   perfection   of  human 


nil:!   il 
i  j 

1!  r:-, 


Isaac. 


37 


Then, 

I  sup- 

imatic. 
works 
,  so  we 
;  are  a 
With 
jt  were 

ire  with 
ing  like 

vention. 
id  sung,  * 

c;  "but, 
)ngs  are 

nly  half 

in  awful 
not  per- 

ial,"  said 
ng  with 
■jion  was 

said  he; 
tent  with 
there  is 
inguishes 
ul  works 
f  human 


genius.  Yet  yours  is  the  literature  of  the  intellect ;  ours, 
that  of  the  soul.  It  is  spiritual  —  divine.  Let  Pindar  give 
utterance  to  the  sublimest  thoughts  of  Plato,  with  his  utmost 
pomp  of  imagery,  and  grand  lyric  storm  of  passion,  and  you 
will  understand  what  our  poems  may  be." 

Cineas  repressed,  with  some  ditficulty,  a  smile  at  what  he 
deemed  the  most  extravagant  national  pride.  The  solemn 
verses,  which  he  had  heard  shortly  before,  showed  that  there 
was  some  reason  for  Isaac's  praise ;  and  yet,  when  he  put 
his  native  poets  above  Pindar  himself,  it  seemed  too  much. 
"  After  all,"  thought  he,  "  this  Asiatic  can  never  understand 
the  Greek  mind.  With  all  his  culture,  the  barbarian  instinct 
remains." 

If  he  had  noticed  Isaac  more  attentively,  he  would  have 
seen  that  he  had  become  much  changed  during  this  conver- 
sation. Every  moment  his  eye  glowed  with  a  more  intense 
lustre ;  his  hands  clenched  themselves  firmly ;  his  bi-eathing 
grew  more  rapid.  His  manner  also  changed.  He  spoke 
more  abruptly,  and  often  rather  to  himself  than  to  Cineas. 
His  tone  was  almost  authoritative  at  times.  That  grand 
figure  might  have  served  as  a  model  for  Moses.  The 
recollection  of  his  nation  and  its  glories,  and  all  the  might 
of  (he  God  of  Israel,  burned  within  his  heart  and  trans- 
foi-med  him.  He  a  slave  ?  He  looked  rather  like  one  of 
those  heroic  Hebrews,  who,  in  the  days  of  the  Judges,  had 
at  different  times  led  up  the  people  to  break  their  bands 
asunder,  and  dash  in  pieces  the  oppressor,  like  Ehud,  or 
Gideon,  or  Jephthah. 

"  I  am  all  curiosity  to  hear  some  more  of  your  poetry," 
said  Cineas.  "  Can  you  translate  some  for  me  which  would 
give  m-e  an  idea  of  it?  If  you  can  repeat  any  like  that 
which  you  spoke  a  short  time  since,  I  should  like  to  hear 
it." 

Isaac  did  not  answer.  He  slowly  rose  from  his  seat,  and 
stood  before  Cineas.  Now,  for  the  first  time,  the  Athenian 
noticed  the  change  that  had  come  over  the  Jew.     His  mag- 


iKfl 


ii;i!.  ij 


I' 


Pi  p 

I 'Iff 


ii!  n 


!  '-^m 


38 


Isaac. 


niflcent  head,  with  its  glowing  eyes,  his  flowing  beard  and 
clustering  hair,  together  with  the  commanding  mien  which 
he  had  assumed,  made  him  one  of  the  grandest  beings  that 
Cineas  had  ever  seen.  He  thought  that  such  a  head  might 
do  for  Olympian  Jove.  He  wondered  at  the  change,  and 
could  not  understand  it. 

Isaac  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then  began,  in  a  voice 
which  was  at  first  calm,  but  afterwards  grew  more  and  more 
impassioned,  — 

"  I  will  love  thee,  0  Lord,  my  strength. 
The  Lord  is  my  rock,  and  my  fortress,  and  my  deliverer; 
My  God,  my  strength,  in  whom  I  will  trust; 
My  buckler,  and  the  horn  of  my  salvation,  and  my  high  tower. 
I  will  call  upon  the  Lord,  who  is  worthy  to  be  praised: 
So  shall  I  be  saved  from  mine  enemies. 
The  sorrows  of  death  compassed  me. 
And  the  floods  of  ungodly  men  made  me  afraid. 
The  sorrows  of  hell  compassed  me  about; 
The  snares  of  death  prevented  me. 
In  my  distress  I  culled  upon  the  Lord, 
And  cried  unto  my  God : 
He  heard  mj'  voice  out  of  his  temple. 
And  my  cry  came  before  him  even  unto  his  ears. 
Then  the  earth  shook  and  trembled, 
The  foundations  also  of  the  hills  moved, 
And  were  shaken  because  he  was  wroth. 
There  went  up  a  smoke  out  of  his  nostrils, 
And  fire  out  of  his  mouth  devoured: 
Coals  were  kindled  by  it. 
He  bowed  the  heavens  also  and  came  down : 
And  darkness  w^as  under  his  feet. 
Ana  he  rode  upon  a  cherub,  and  did  fly: 
Yea.  he  did  fly  upon  the  wings  of  the  wind. 
He  made  dr.rkness  his  secret  place. 
His  pavilion  round  about  him  were  dark  waters 
And  thick  clouds  of  the  skies. 

At  the  brightness  that  was  before  him  his  thick  clouds  passed ; 
Hail-stones  and  coals  of  fire.  * 

The  Lord  also  thundered  in  the  heavens. 
And  the  Highest  gave  his  voice;  , 

Hail-stones  and  coals  of  fire. 
Yea,  he  sent  out  his  arrows,  and  scattered  them ; 
And  he  shot  out  his  lightnings  and  discomfited  them. 


Isaac.  39 

g^^  Then  the  channels  of  the  waters  were  seen, 

.  •  And  till!  fomi(lati<.n.s  of  the  world  were  discovered, 

'"^  _  At  thy  rcl.uko.  ()  Lord, 

that  At  the  blast  of  the  brt.ath  of  thy  nostrils, 

jcrht  He  i^ent  from  above,  he  took  nie, 


and 


sr, 


He  drew  nic  out  of  many  waters. 
•      He  delivered  nie  from  my  strong  enem)', 
And  from  them  which  hated  me; 
(^oice  ,  For  they  were  too  strong  for  me. 

QJ.Q  ^  They  prevented  me  in  tlic  day  of  my  calamity. 

Hut  the  Lord  was  my  stay. 
He  brought  me  forth  also  into  a  large  place  ; 
He  delivered  mc,  because  he  delighted  in  me." 

The  rehearsal  of  these  words  formed  a  memorable  scene 
for  Cineas.  After  the  first  few  lines,  Isaac  grew  more  and 
more  excited,  until  he  arose  to  a  sublime  passion  of  fervid 
enthusiasm.  His  clear,  full  voice  intoned  into  each  line,  so 
that  it  came  to  Cineas  like  the  peal  of  a  war-trumpet,  and  it 
subdued  all  his  spirit.  They  blended  themselves  with  the 
words  of  the  prayer  of  Marcus.  "  Whence  came  all  these 
words  ?  "  he  thought.  In  his  rapt  attention,  he  traced  the 
sublime  idea  of  the  poet,  although  he  could  not  comprehend 
all  his  expressions.  For  that  poet  began  by  singing  of  his 
own  love  to  his  Maker,  after  which  he  went  on  to  portray  all 
the  powers  of  the  Infinite  One  put  forth  to  save  him, — a  man. 
It  was  like  a  new  revelation  to  Cineas.  Here  was  a  lofty 
assertion  of  that  which  he  could  scarcely  hope  for.  He 
could  say  to  himself  that  it  was  probable,  that  it  was 
desirable ;  but  here  was  one  who  declared  that  it  had 
actually  been.  The  one  had  conjecture ;  the  other,  ex- 
perience. That  experience  was  here  narrated  ;  and  in  what 
words  !  How  coldly  sounded  the  loftiest  language  of  Plato 
beside  these  divine  utterances  ! 
|edi  "  Go  on !  go  on !  "  he  cried,  as  Isaac  paused;    "  or  no  — 

stop  —  go  back  and  repeat  it  all  over  —  over  and  over  — 
till  I  have  fixed  these  marvellous  words  in  my  memory ! " 

"  I  will,   0  Cineas,"  said  Isaac ;  "  but  these  are  only  a 
part  of  many  other  such,  which  are  the  stay  and  the  solace 


ill! 


II' 


li  1 


1      I 
liJir 


>|lli. 


1 

* 

1 

l-iiv'- 

40 


Isaac. 


of  ray  life ;  and  not  of  mine  only,  but  of  all  my  afflicted 
nation." 

lie  pansed  ;  a  sigh  burst  from  him  ;  and  he  secimod  to 
struj^gle  with  ov('rj)o\vcring  emotion.  "  No,  no,"  he  mur- 
mured to  himself,  "  I  muat  not  think  of  it ; "  and  then  turning 
to  the  Athenian,  "  Noble  Cineas,  pardon  my  weakness ;  but 
it  overcomes  me  whenever  I  think  of  my  country." 

Again  his  emotion  overpowered  him ;  tears  welled  from 
his  eyes,  — 

"  How  shall  we  sinp  the  Lord's  song 
In  a  strange  lund ! 
If  I  forget  thee,  0  Jerusalem, 
Let  my  right  hand  forget  her  cunning; 
If  I  do  not  remember  thee, 
Let  my  tongue  cleave  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth ; 
If  I  prefer  not  Jerusalem  above  my  chief  joj'." 

Again  he  paused,  trying  to  subdue  his  passionate  sorrow. 

Cineas  was  much  amused  by  the  agitation  of  this  extraor- 
dinary man.  The  longing  homesickness  evinced  by  his 
words  and  tones,  profoundly  moved  him.  He  thought  the 
scene  too  painful  for  this  broken-hearted  exile.  He  rose  and 
came  up  to  him. 

"  Isaac,"  said  he,  speaking  in  a  voice  of  tenderest  and 
most  generous  sympathy,  and  laying  his  hand  on  the  arm  of 
the  Jew,  "  let  me  not  be  the  cause  of  so  much  agitation. 
Forgive  me.  I  have  opened  mournful  memories.  Think  of 
these  things  no  more." 

Isaac  rallied  at  once.  He  looked  at  Cineas  with  a  glance 
of  gratitude  and  affection. 

*'  Alas,"  he  said,  with  a  sad  smile,  "  I  think  of  these  things 
all  the  time,  and  dream  of  them  by  night.  Pardon  me.  I 
have  lost  my  self-control ;  and  have  been  led  away  by  your 
warm  sympathy  to  forget  myself.  Another  time  we  will 
talk  of  these  things.  But  I  will  write  out  some  of  these 
verses  which  you  appear  to  appreciate,  as  I  cannot  trust  my- 
self to  recite  them." 


Isaac. 


41 


And,  taking  his  pen,  he  tnioedout  the  verses  on  a  sheet  of 
papyrus,  anil  then  hanch'd  it  to  Cineas. 

"  And  now,"  said  Cineas,  anxious  to  chanj^e  the  conversa- 
tion ;  "  I  will  tell  you  in  a  few  words  the  business  that 
brouj^ht  me  here  to-day." 

He  then  proceeded  to  relate  the  action  of  Labeo,  and  his 
own  appointment  as  guardian  in  case  of  the  former's  death. 

"  Now,  Isaac,"  he  continued,  "  from  what  I  have  lu'ard 
and  seen  of  you,  1  liave  confidence  both  in  your  honesty 
and  intelligence.  I  will  need  an  able  assistant  in  the  work 
tliat  devolves  upon  me ;  for  I  intend  shortly  to  assume  the 
charge  of  this  family  and  estate." 

As  Cineas  said  this,  Isaac's  fine  face  was  overspread  with 
a  ilush  of  genuine  and  unaffected  delight. 

"  You  yourself,  Cineas !  "  lie  exclaimed.  "  Then  I  am 
free  from  one  great  and  distressing  anxiety.  I  have  heard 
that  your  own  possessions  are  vast,  and  that  your  wealth  is 
equal  to  that  of  the  richest  in  Rome.  You  can  understand 
the  business  of  this  estate  the  more  i-eadily,  and,  what  is  bet- 
ter, you  can  perceive  if  anything  has  been  mismanaged." 

"  That  is  what  I  wish  to  discover.  You  know  that  I  al- 
ready dislike  and  suspect  this  Hegio.  He  has  been  control- 
ler and  manager  of  this  esUite  for  three  years  ;  and  does 
what  he  pleases.  I  must  see  what  he  has  been  doing.  I 
wish  you  now  to  tell  me  everything  that  you  know  about 
him.     Does  Hegio  spend  much  time  in  Ron  3  ?  " 

"  Much." 

"  What  for  ?  "  • 

"  He  is  engaged  in  speculations." 

"  What  are  they  ?  " 

"  He  originally  began  by  buying  rarities  for  the  table  of 
the  emperor  —  particularly  African  truffles.  He  has  now 
for  some  time  been  engaged  in  loaning  money." 

"  Loaning  money  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

"Is  he  rich?" 

4* 


r    i' 


I    ! 


Hill  II  pi  I 


I. 
i      iir, 


■( 


■  IH  ^ 


■  ;i:!. 


M'' 


hjM 


42 


Isaac. 


"  No ;  but  he  controls  much  money,"  said  Isaac,  with 
deep  meannig  in  his  tone. 

"Labeo's,  you  mean,  I  suppose,"  said  Cineas. 

«  Yes." 

"  Perhaps  he  loans  the  money  on  account  of  the  estate 
so  as  to  enrich  his  emidoyer." 

"  The  money  is  certainly  Labeo's.  Whether  he  will  be 
enriclied  or  not  is  altogether  another  (juestion.  Hegio's 
great  acquaintances  have  spoiled  him,"  continued  Isaac 
somewhat  dryly.  '' pJeneca,  the  wonderful  philosoj '  r  and 
moralist,  has  shown  him  how  to  double  his  income  within  a 
year  by  loaning  it  judiciously.  Tigellinus  is  now  teaching 
him  how  to  scjuander  it." 

"  Tigellinus ! " 

"  Yes.  Heglo  sometimes  coniwunds  Tigellinus  with 
Labeo,  and  hardly  knows  which  is  his  master." 

"  How  ?  "  asked  Cineas,  not  quite  understanding  him. 

"  By  paying  to  him  the  money  of  Labeo,  and  making  re- 
turns of  accounts  to  him." 

"  Great  Zeus ! "  cried  Cineas,  springing  up.  "  How  do 
you  know  this  ?  " 

"  My  gratitude  to  Labeo,  and  affection  for  his  noble  wife 
and  child  have  always  made  me  watchful  over  this  family. 
When  we  arrived  here  I  marked  this  man.  I  knew  that 
such  a  face  could  not  cover  an  honest  heart.  I  knew  that 
he  was  a  cunning  scoundrel,  and  determined  to  watch  him. 
Circumstaiices  favored  me  very  greatly.  You  know  our 
nation,  —  how  it  is  all  united,  wherever  it  may  be  scattered, 
and  how  we  all  cling  together.  We  form  a  separate  com- 
munity wherever  we  go.  We  all  know  one  another,  stand 
by  one  another,  and  assist  one  another  as  far  as  possible.  I 
know  all  the  Jews  in  Rome.  Many  of  them  are  very  wealthy, 
and  know  all  the  secrets  of  the  great  world. 

"  As  soon  as  I  determined  to  watch  this  man,  I  found  that 
I  would  need  more  eyes  than  my  own.  He  passed  much 
of  his  time  in  Rome,  and  what  he  did  there  was  a  secret  to 


m 

M 


■M 
■3 


Isaac. 


43 


with 


me.  I  knew,  liowevt  hut  all  the  revenue  of  this  estate 
(lid  not  go  to  Labc'O,  nor  anythin;?  like  it.  Where  did  it  go? 
To  some  purpose  in  the  city.  In  order  to  find  this  out,  I 
put  mysfdf  in  communication  with  my  own  people.  At  once, 
nil  their  knowledge  was  at  my  disposal ;  and  I,  a  poor  slave, 
was  able  to  know  the  whole  conduct  of  Ilegio,  and  his  dis- 
posal of  every  hour  of  his  time,  every  day  of  his  life. 

'•  TigcUinus  is  the  most  infamous  of  men,  and  already  has 
much  influence  with  Csesar.  He  is  aiming  at  the  highest 
position  in  the  state,  that  of  Commander  of  the  Praetorian 
Guard,  hut  certainly  as  long  as  liurrhus  lives,  he  will  not  get 
it.  However,  he  is  rapacious  and  unscrupulous,  and  has,  for 
some  time,  been  high  in  Niuo's  favor.  He  has  been  the  in- 
stitrator  of  some  of  the  most  atrocious  acts  that  have  oc(!urred 
of  late.  He  has  an  especial  fancy  for  plundering  the  aged, 
the  weak,  and  the  uni)rotected;  and,  for  all  these  reasons,  his 
name  is  now  one  of  the  terrors  of  Rome. 

"  After  Labeo  went  to  Britain,  Hegio  was  left  to  himself 
more  than  he  had  been  before,  and  went  more  extensively 
into  his  private  speculations,  making  use  of  his  master's 
money  for  this  purpose.  When  we  first  came  hei'e,  he  was 
carrying  on  these  operations  on  a  great  scale,  and  had  large 
sums  out  at  interest.  It  was  during  the  first  period  of 
our  return  that  he  became  attached  to  Tigellinus.  He 
thought  he  saw  in  him  the  rising  favorite  of  the  day,  and 
so  he  paid  his  court  to  him. 

"  Since  the  disasters  in  Britain,  new  schemes  have  been 
started  by  him.  He  thinks  that  Labeo  may  not  return  again, 
and,  in  that  case,  the  estate  might  be  open  to  an  unscrupulous 
man,  backed  by  the  power  of  Tigellinus. " 

"  But  how  could  they  do  such  a  thing  ?  "  asked  Cineas. 
"The  most  unjust  act  is  usually  founded  on  some  pretext; 
but  Labeo  has  never  given  any  cause  even  for  jealousy. 
He  is  not  powerful  enough  for  this." 

"  Nothing  can  secure  a  man  from  the  power  of  the  Empe- 
ror.     If  Labeo  were  now  here  in  Rome,  and  Hegio  had  se- 


in 


44 


Isaac. 


iiinn 


W 


cured  the  cooperu*<on  of  Tigellinus,  there  would  be  nothing 
to  prevent  his  success.  The  thing  has  often  been  done. 
Tigellinus  obtains  the  careless  assent  of  Nero.  An  officer 
from  the  court  then  waits  on  Labeo,  and  advises  him  to 
put  an  end  to  his  life.  He  obeys,  in  order  to  save  him- 
self from  a  worse  fate.  He  falls  on  his  sword.  His  family 
are  driven  off  to  ruin  and  starvation.  TLs  informer  divides 
the  estate  with  Tigellinus,  and  exults  in  the  misery  of 
his  victims.     Such  things  are  done  every  day." 

A  cold  shudder  ran  through  Cineas,  as  he  thought  of  the 
possibility  of  this.  There  was  indeed  danger.  The  name 
of  Tigellinus,  he  well  knew,  was  surrounded  with  associ- 
ations of  horror,  and  few  were  safe  from  him. 

"  All  this  I  know,"  ^aid  Isaac  ;  "  but  I  do  not  know  what 
particular  way  of  action  Hegio  has  decided  on.  Perhaps  he 
will  defer  it  until  he  is  certain  of  Labeo's  death,  and  then  he 
and  his  patron  can  seize  it  as  guardians.  This  I  think  is  his 
present  intention.  But  I  believe  that  if  news  came  to- 
day that  Suetonius  was  lost,  and  Labeo  dead,  the  estate 
would  be  seized  at  once,  and  my  dear  mistress  and  her  child 
driven  away  to  starve. 

"On  the  other  hand,"  said  Isaac,  "there  is  much  to  de- 
ter even  Tigellinus  from  such  a  course.  Burrhus  is  yet 
chief  in  rank,  and  high  in  power.  After  all,  he  is  more  than 
a  match  for  Tigellinus  just  yet.  I  knovtr  that  he  is  your  in- 
timate friend,  ,find  he  is  also  strongly  attached  to  Labeo. 
Seneca,  also,  is  another  warm  friend.  His  ancient  family  ; 
the  Sulpicii,  of  which  he  is  the  head  ;  the  high  descent  of 
your  noble  sister,  his  wife,  who  is  known  everywhere  to 
inherit  the  blood  of  the  Megacleids  and  Heracleids, — 
make  his  name  conspicuous,  and  might  prevent  hasty  action, 
or  extreme  measures.  -      . 

"  Hegio  went  off  this  morning  no  doubt  to  see  Tigellinus. 
I  don't  think  the  present  news  from  Britain  will  make  any  dif- 
ference in  their  present  action.     They  will  wait. 

"  As  to  the  money  of  the  estate,  Hegio  has  it  all.    He 


b 


Isaac. 


45 


(thing 
done, 
officer 
lim  to 
5  him- 
faraily 
livides 
iry  of 

of  the 

}  name 

associ- 

w  what 
haps  he 
then  he 
ik  is  his 
pie  to- 
e  estate 
ler  child 


m 


to  de- 
is  yet 
ore  than 
your  in- 
Labeo. 
family ; 
scent  of 
vhere  to 
jleids,  — 
y  action, 


gives  about  one  half  to  tlie  support  of  the  family,  and 
uses  the  rest  to  speculate.  I  have  proofs,  which  I  can  show 
you.  One  of  the  slaves  of  the  estate  is  his  accountant.  He 
is  a  Jew,  and  hates  Hcglo.  I  had  little  difficulty  in  inducing 
him  to  let  me  see  the  accounts,  and  I  am  even  now  engaged 
every  day  in  examining  them." 

"  How  can  you  manage  that  ?  " 

"  This  accountant  brings  them  to  me,  whenever  he  knows 
that  Hegio  has  gone  to  Rome.  We  then  examine  them. 
It  will  take  two  or  three  months  to  finish  the  work.  I  have 
discovered  enormous  frauds,  and  can  show  you  tlie  proofs  at 
any  time.  Circumstances  have  very  greatly  favored  me, 
and  Hegio  knows  so  little  about  it,  that  he  never  dreams  that 
I  am  anything  more  than  a  harmless  librarian,  all  taken  up 
with  my  books." 

Cineas  expressed  in  the  strongest  language  his  lively 
sense  of  the  services  of  Isaac  ;  urged  him  to  go  on  with 
his  investigations,  and  said  that  in  the  mean  time  he 
would  consider  what  might  be  the  best  mode  of  dealing 
witli  so  dangerous  a  villain.  Then,  full  of  thought,  and  with 
no  little  anxiety,  he  took  his  departure. 


>^ 


isjellinus. 


eany 


dif- 


all.    He 


m 


IV. 


ii! 


THE  BO r  AND  HIS  NURSE. 


HEN  Cineas  joined  his  sister,  he  found  her  with  the 
family  in  the  peristylium,  a  noble  hall  surrounded 
\)j  pillars,  with  an  opening  in  the  roof.  Her 
mother-in-law,  Sulpicia,  was  there  ;  her  son,  Mar- 
cus, was  by  her  side,  and  the  nurse  was  seated  not 
far  away.  Cineas  was  again  struck  by  her  strange 
aspect,  which  evinced  so  much  suffering  and  pa- 
tient endurance. 

As  he  entered,  Sulpicia  was  trying  to  comfort  Helena  in 
her  own  way.  She  was  an  elderly  lady,  of  what  we  might 
call  the  true  Roman  style :  a  grave  and  noble  countenance, 
a  dignified  manner,  and  a  mien  which  evinced  conhiderable 
hauteur.  She  was  one  who  could  never  forget  that  she  be- 
longed to  the  Sulpician  gens. 

"  If  you  wei-e  a  Roman,  my  daughter,"  she  said,  as  kindly 
as  she  could,  "  you  would  show  more  firmness." 

"  But  I  am  not  a  Roman,"  said  Helena,  somewhat  queru- 
lously, "  and  I  cannot  forget  that  Lucius  is  in  danger." 

"  Danger !  "  rejoined  Sulpicia,  with  contempt.  "  What 
danger?  —  from  those  savage  Britons?  And  what,  pray, 
can  they  do  against  a  Roman  army  ? " 

"  Have  they  not  already  done  too  much?"  said  Helena; 
and  she  damped  her  boy  still  more  closely  to  her,  expressing 
by  that  act  her  secret  thought,  that  he  alone  was  now  left  to 
her. 

"My  son's  wife,"  said  Sulpicia,  in  accents  of  grave  re- 
proof, "should  learn  to   have  more  confidence  in    Roman 

(46) 


The  Boy  and  his  Nurse. 


47 


ith  the 
oundeci 
.  Her 
1,  Mar- 
ted  not 
strange 
and  pa- 

ilena  in 
e  might 
tenance, 
tiderable 
she  be- 
kindly 
[t  queru- 

«  What 
|at,  pray, 

I  Helena ; 
j:pressing 
)w  left  to 

rrave  rc- 
Roman 


soldier?.     These  Britons  have  gained  some  advantages  by  a 
sudden  outbreak ;  but  they  have  yet  to  meet  Suetonius." 

"  London,  Verulam,  Camulodune  ! "  sighed  Helena ;  and, 
as  slie  spoke,  she  burst  into  tears ;  for  the  horrible  spectacle 
of  barbaric  vengeance  on  those  well-known  places  rose 
plainly  and  vividly  before  her.  She  had  known  them  well. 
Slie  had  lived  for  a  time  in  each,  and  could  realize  to  the 
fullest  extent  the  horror  of  their  fate. 

"  It  was  only  because  they  took  the  garrisons  by  sur- 
j)rise,"  said  Sulpicia,  with  some  severity.  "Of  course, 
under  such  circumstances,  even  Roman  soldiers  may  be 
overcome.  But  the  strength  of  the  Roman  armies  is  with 
Suetonius;  and,  when  he  comes  back,  he  will  show  them 
wliut  vengeance  is.  The  next  news  that  we  receive  will  be 
tliat  he  has  returned  and  punished  those  wretched  rebels  as 
tliey  deserve." 

"  The  worst  of  it  is,"  sighed  Helena,  "  that  those  wretched 
rebels  have  some  cause  for  their  outbreak.  The  wrongs  of 
Boiidicea." 

"  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it ;  it  is  all  their  lies.  The 
Roman  has  always  been  generous  to  an  enemy.  Of  course, 
if  tliis  miserable  woman  wanted  to  get  up  a  rebellion,  she 
could  easily  invent  excuses." 

"  Would  they  have  been  so  ferocious  and  implacable  if 
they  had  no  cause  ?  " 

"  Of  course  they  would,"  said  Sulpicia,  in  a  tone  that  put 
denial  aside.  "  Of  course  they  would.  It  is  the  nature  of 
the  .barbarian  to  rel)cl.  And  this  shows  the  necessity  of 
severe  measures.  You  cannot  have  security  among  wretches 
r.' e  these  without  strong  repression  and  eternal  vigilance. 
AMien  their  armies  are  broken  up  again,  they  will  receive  a 
lesson,  I  hope,  which  they  will  not  soon  forget." 
:  "  Their  armies  are  so  large,  and  they  are  so  fierce  and  so 
;  brave  !  "  said  Helena. 

"And  pray,  what  does  that  matter?     A  Roman    army 
^  never  considers  mere  numbers  in  deahng  with  barbarians. 


^m 


.-w- 


48 


T^e  Boy  and  his  Nurse. 


W:  :   I 


'i.  Hi 


;|i 


Our  soldiers  can  easily  destroy  them;  and,  in  fact,  their 
numbers  will  only  make  their  destruction  moi-e  certain  and 
more  extensive."  ^ 

"I  am  afraid  that  I  have  not  your  confidence,"  said 
Helena.  "  Great  disasters  have  sometimes  happened  to 
Roman  armies.  Think  of  Carbo,  Cassius,  Aurelius,  Cae 
pio,  and  Manlius,  all  of  whom  were  defeated  or  taken  prison- 
ers in  the  wars  with  the  Germans.  Above  all,  think  of 
Varus  and  his  three  legions,  miserably  destroyed." 

"  You  have  a  good  memory  for  disasters,  my  daughter," 
said  Sulpicia,  coldly.  "  I,  for  my  part,  prefer  to  think  of  our 
conquests.  Are  not  these  Germans  in  subjection,  or  at  least 
in  awe  ?  Have  not  the  Britons  been  concjuered  ?  All  our 
disasters  are  owing  to  the  rashness  of  the  generals,  who 
would  not  understand  the  barbarian  mode  of  fighting.  Let 
a  careful  general  go  against  them,  and  what  chance  have 
they?" 

"  After  all,"  said  Helena,  determined  to  look  on  the  dark 
side,  "  even  our  best  generals  have  not  done  much.  Even 
Julius,  when  he  went  to  Britain,  could  not  conquer  it.  He 
made  it  known  to  the  Romans,  he  did  not  place  it  under 
their  power." 

"  "Why,  how  unreasonable  you  are,"  said  Sulpicia,  impa- 
tiently. "  Whether  he  conquered  or  not  makes  no  differ- 
ence. If  he  had  chosen,  he  could  easily  have  done  so.  Otlier 
plans  called  him  away.  Britain  was  conquered  by  inferior 
men,  very  easily ;  and  this  revolt  will  soon  be  forgotten. 
Suetonius  is  a  very  different  general  from  the  others,  aftd  he 
has  a  large  army." 

"  But  think  what  vast  multitudes  of  the  Britons  there 
are,"  pursued  Helena.  "  How  fierce,  and  how  desperate. 
I  have  heard  you  tell  of  their  famous  chief,  Caractacus,  — and 
you  said  that  all  Rome  admired  him,  —  and  Claudius  let  him 
go.  If  they  have  such  men  now,  I  fear  this  rebellion  will 
be  worse  than  you  think  it." 

"  You  aire  a  child,  my  daughter,  and  you  do  not  know  the 


The  Boy  and  his  Nurse. 


49 


,  their 
liu  and 

,"   saitl 
ned  to 

prison- 
liink  of 

lUghter," 
ik  of  our 
r  at  least 
All  our 
rals,  who 
[tig.     Let 
.nee  have 

I  the  dark 
;h.  Even 
it.  He 
it  under 

icia,  impa- 
no  differ- 
so.  Other 
by  inferior 
forgotten, 
ers,  aftd  ho 

itons  there 
desperate, 
xcus,  —  aiitl 
lius  let  him 
bellion  will 


0' 


tknow  the 


Roman  nature.  This  rebellion  must  be  put  down.  Boadi- 
cea  and  all  her  followers  must  suffer  punishment  for  their 
crimes.  Perhaps  by  this  lime  Suetonius  has  already  done 
the  work,  and  given  her  wliat  her  crimes  deserve.  The 
mode  in  which  these  barbarians  have  gone  to  work, 
shows  their  true  character,  too.  Tliey  took  advantage  of 
the  absence  of  the  legions  to  rise.  They  make  an  attack  and 
carry  all  before  them.  Under  such  circumstances  they  are 
often  dangerous ;  but  when  it  comes  to  a  fair  field  of  battle, 
then  tlicy  are  nothing.  A  small  Roman  army  of  one  or  two 
legions  is  more  than  a  match  for  their  utmost  force.  But  if 
you  will  persist  in  thinking  of  the  worst,  what  can  I  do  or 
what  can  I  say  to  comfort  you  ?  " 

"  Nothing  —  nothing.  You  are  dear  and  kind,  and  I  am 
weak  and  despondent.  If  I  had  your  firmness  I  would  think 
hke  you." 

"  I  am  a  Roman  matron,"  said  Sulpicia,  proudly. 

"  And  I  am  a  Greek,"  said  Helena. 

"  But  you  must  learn  to  be  a  Roman,  dearest,"  said  Sul- 
picia, kindly ;  and,  drawing  near  to  Helena,  she  kissed  her 
and  added,  "  Come,  my  daughter,  hoj)e  for  the  best ;  at  least, 
bIiow  more  firmness,  and  do  not  despond.  Trust  in  the  gods. 
They  have  always  favored  the  arms  of  Rome." 

Again  she  kissed  Helena,  and,  after  pressing  her  hand,  she 
retired  from  the  apartment.  Helena  leaned  her  head  upon 
her  hand,  and,  unable  to  repress  her  feelings,  she  turned  her 
face  away  and  wept. 

Her  little  boy  crawled  nearer  to  his  mother,  and  twined  his 
arms  about  her.  For  some  moments  the  two  sat  in  this  po- 
fcsition.  As  for  Cineas,  he  did  not  know  what  to  say.  Full 
)f  sympathy  for  his  sister,  he  yet  was  at  a  loss  how  to  ad- 
uinisfer  comfort  in  her  deep  dejection.  o  he  sat  in  silence, 
[waiting  for  a  favorable  opportunity. 

Helena,  at  length,  by  a  strong  effort,  mastered  her  grief, 
ind,  turning  round  again,  she  embraced  ber  boy,  and  regarded 
lim  with  a  long  and  loving  glance. 


50 


The  Boy  and  his  JWrse. 


It! '! 


!■:.;;::, 


"  My  mother  dearest,"  said  the  child,  "  why  do  you  weep 
so?  Do  not  fear  about  father.  God  will  t;  '  o  care  of 
him." 

The  little  boy  looked  at  her  vith  an  earnest  and  grave 
expression  on  his  childish  face.  His  mother  kissed  him,  and 
stroked  his  head  fondly. 

"  Darling,"  elie  said,  "  what  do  you  know  about  God  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  know,"  said  Marcus,  "  how  he  takes  care  of  all 
tiling.^.     He  is  our  Father,  and  loves  us." 

"  Loves  us ! "  Helena  took  up  the  words  u.id  turned  them 
in  her  heart.  "  Dear  boy,  you  have  strange  thoughts  and 
feelings  sometimes,"  she  said,  after  a  pause. 

Cineas,  too,  felt  the  deep  meaning  of  the  words.  He  had 
never  learned  this  from  Plato.  Tliis  child  had  ah'eady  ut- 
tered in  his  hearing  words  that  pici'ced  his  soul  and  thrilled 
him,  so  he  now  looked  at  the  mother  and  son,  wondering 
what  new  thing  would  be  spoken. 

"  I  pray  to  God  for  my  dearest  father,"  said  Marcus,  in  a 
solemn  tone,  which  sounded  strangely  in  one  so  young.  "  I 
pray,  and  God  hears  me.  And  I  think  my  dearest  father 
will  come  back  again  from  the  wars.  And  when  I  think  of 
him  I  do  not  weep,  but  feel  glad." 

"  And  do  you  pray  to  the  Great  God  —  you,  a  little 
child?"  said  Helena. 

"  Yes ;  for  he  has  said  that  all  little  children  might  come 
to  him." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Helena,  with  some 
bviwilderment.  "  I  never  knew  that  he  had  said  anything. 
When  did  he  say  this  ?  " 

Marcus  looked  at  her  with  a  kind  of  reproachful  sur- 
prise. 

"  What !  don't  you  know  ?  "  he  said,  after  a  pause.  "  I 
know  the  very  words  he  said,  and  I  love  them.  But  you  do 
know  them  ?  "  he  added,  with  a  sudden  idea  that  his  mother 
was  jesting. 

"  Not  I,  dear  boy ;  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean.     You 


§, 
"■''5S 


i 


The  Boy  and  his  Nurse. 


SI 


of 
little 


some 
hing. 

sur- 

"I 

ou  do 
other 

You 


are  so  strange ; "  and  Helena  looked  toward  Cineas,  whose 
eyes  she  encountered,  and  r  ticed  his  fixed  attention  to  the 
scene. 

"I  know  the  words,"  said  Marcus,  "and  I  love  thcra. 
That  is  why  I  pray.  Because  He  said  little  children  might 
pray.  He  said,  '  Let  the  little  children  come  to  me,  and 
forbid  them  not,  for  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven ; '  and 
haven't  you  heard  this  before  ?  '* 

Helena  did  not  answer.  Cineas  heard  these  words  with 
the  same  surprise  which  lie  had  felt  before.  The  whole  air 
of  the  child  was  that  of  one  who  knew  perfectly  well  what 
he  was  talking  about.  There  was  no  hesitation  in  his  man- 
ner, or  incoherency. 

"  When  did  He  say  that  ?  "  said  Helena,  at  last.  "  I  do 
not  understand  you." 

•'  Why,  when  He  was  here." 

"Here?" 

"  Yes,  in  the  world.  When  He  left  heaven  and  was  liv- 
ing in  the  world." 

"  When  He  left  heaven  —  and  was  living  in  the  world," 
repeated  Helena.  "  The  fables  of  the  gods  tell  no  such  stoiy 
as  this.  Most  of  them,  according  to  these  fables,  spent  dif- 
ferent periods  among  men,  but  men  never  were  any  the  bet- 
ter for  them." 

"  Oh,  but  this  is  the  Great  God,  and  our  Father,"  said 
Marcus,  earnestly.  "  He  loved  us  and  pitied  us,  and  so  he 
came  and  lived  here  to  bless  us.  And  that  was  when  some 
little  children  came  to  him.  And  they  wanted  to  push  the 
little  children  away.  But  he  said,  '  Let  them  come,  and 
forbid  them  not,  for  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven.' " 

"  What  fable  can  he  possibly  have  heard  ? "  asked 
Cineas. 

"  Some  one,  which  has  been  purified  and  changed  in  his 
own  sweet  thoughts,"  said  Helena,  kissing  her  boy  fondly, 
and  pressing  him  to  her. 

"  Ahd  did  he  say  you  might  pray  to  him  ?  " 


^W 


S3 


T/ie  Boy  mid  his  Nurse, 


% 
li 


f:i: 


"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Marcus,  eagerly.  "  He  said,  to  ask  what 
we  wanted,  and  he  would  give  it  to  us  ;  and  he  said,  if  we 
loved  him  we  would  go  to  heaven." 

Love  again,  —  to  love  him.  Ah,  sweet  childish  thought. 
All  is  sununed  up  in  love  or  hate.  To  love  God.  Perhaps 
this  seems  easy  to  a  child ;  but  to  a  man  it  is  different. 
Thus  thought  Cineas,  as  he  listened,  and  thought  still  that 
•Marcus  had  heard  some  version  of  the  many  fables  about 
Jupiter.  Yet  he  wondered  that  he  had  never  heard  any- 
thing like  this. 

While  this  conversation  liad  been  going  on,  the  nurse  had 
not  appeared  to  listen.  With  her  sad  but  serene  face  she 
sat  at  a  distance  from  the  family  group,  her  hands  busied  at 
some  embroidery,  and  her  eyes  apparently  intent  on  this. 
Yet  she  had  noted  all,  and  heard  all. 

"  But,  mother  dearest,"  said  Marcus,  caressing  her,  "  how 
is  it  that  you  have  not  heard  of  this  sweet  thought  that  God 
loves  you  ?  " 

"  God  loves  me  ?  "  murmured  Helena,  in  a  strange,  slow 
voice,  looking  with  deep  meaning  at  Cineas. 

"  Don't  you  know  this  ?  You  speak  so  strangely,"  said 
Marcus,  with  the  persistency  of  a  child. 

"  And  how  do  you  know  it  ?  "  asked  his  mother. 

"  Oh,  I  have  known  it  always  —  that  is,  ever  since  nurse 
Las  been  here.  And  so  I  come  to  Ilim,  and  I  pray  to  Him, 
and  when  I  look  at  the  bright  blue  sky,  1  often  think  I  see 
the  kingdom  of  heaven,  and  hosts  of  little  children  around 
the  throne  of  God." 

"  That  would  be  a  purer  heaven  than  the  Olympian  one, 
at  any  rate,"  muttered  Cineas. 

"  And  when  I  feel  sad,  I  go  and  pray  to  tlim,  and  He  takes 
all  my  sadness  away." 

"  Oh,  my  sweetest  one,  your  words  go  through  my  heart. 
What  words  are  these  ?  Where  did  you  learn  all  this  ?  Tell 
me  more  that  you  know ! " 

Helena  spoke  in  earnest,  longing  tones.     The  nurse  lifted 


-A 


-!> 


<.^ 


T.- 


The  Boy  and  his  Ntirsc, 


53 


nurse 
|;o  Him, 
I  see 
around 


ky  heart. 
1?    Tell 


fse 


lifted 


her  heiid  with  a  <iiii(k  movement,  but  instantly  lowered  it, 
and  two  large  tears  fell  upon  the  work  before  her. 

Marcus  looked  in  surprise  at  his  mother. 

"  Why,  haven't  you  heard  how  He  hears  all  our  prayers, 
and  (li-ies  all  our  tears  ?  I  will  tell  you  what  He  said,  and 
what  1  love  as  nmch  as  those  other  words  that  I  told  you 
of." 

"  Wliat  are  they  ?  " 

"  He  said,  '  Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  labor  and  are 
heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest.'  His  words  are  very 
sweet,  mother  dearest." 

" '  Come  unto  me ! ' "  repeated  Helena.  "  What  things  are 
these?  Marcus,  where  did  you  learn  all  this? — that  God 
can  love  ;  that  he  says,  '  Come  unto  me  ; '  and  receives  even 
litthi  children.  This  is  neither  the  fables  of  the  vulgar  nor 
philosophy.  Is  it  all  your  own,  my  dearest?  Is  it  your 
own  thoughts  ?     But  tell  me  those  words  again." 

Again  Marcus  repeated  those  words  of  heavenly  sweet- 
ness, and  his  mother  listened  with  the  rapt  attention  of  one 
who  wished  to  retain  them  in  memory  forever. 

The  nurse  still  plied  her  needle,  and  seemed  absorbed  in 
her  work.     Cinoas  listened  as  eagerly  as  Helena. 

"  If  we  could  only  take  that  as  the  real  voice  of  our  Cre- 
ator," he  said  at  last,  in  a  solemn  voice,  "  and  all  that  this 
dear  boy  has  been  telling  us,  aa  his  words,  what  comfort 
there  would  be  for  you  and  me !  And  what  comfort  this 
would  have  been  to  one  whose  fate  has  often  been  in  my 
thoughts  !  Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  a  certain  strange  disci- 
ple of  Theophilus,  named  Cleon,  at  least  that  was  the  name 
by  which  he  was  known  in  Athens.  He  came  to  the  city  a 
year  or  two  after  your  departure,  from  a  town  in  Crete,  and 
berame  distinguished  among  the  worst  youi  men  of  the  city 
for  his  profligacy.  One  day  Theophilus  was  lecturing,  and 
Cl(!on,  with  a  band  of  companions,  came  in.  They  seemed 
to  be  fresh  from  a  cax'ouse,  although  it  was  early  in  the  day. 
They  were  anointed,  and  garlands  were  on  their  heads,  and 

5* 


54 


The  Boy  and  his  Nurse, 


I  i' 


the  fumes  of  wine  hung  about  tliera.  Theopliilus  was  dis- 
coursing on  liis  liiv.orite  theme  —  immortality.  He  spoke 
of  tlie  endless  life  of  the  soul  hereafter,  the  condition  of  the 
virtuous,  and  of  the  vicious  man.  lie  showed  that  the  man 
who  loved  virtue  was  most  like  God,  and  must  needs  be- 
come more  like  him  as  ages  passed  away;  while,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  vicious  and  the  impure  must  go  and  consort 
with  others  like  themselves.  All  this  was  unfolded  with 
that  sublime  enthusiasm  which  made  our  glorious  teacher  so 
dear  to  all  his  disciples,  and  impressed  his  doctrines  so 
deeply  on  our  hearts. 

"  The  revellers  listened  with  attention,  and  Cleon,  to  our 
surprise,  seemed  deeply  moved.  After  the  lecture  was  over, 
his  companions  departed,  but  he  remained  behind.  He  asked 
Theophilus,  with  the  deepest  respect,  if  such  a  one  as  he 
could  he  admitted  as  one  of  his  disciples.  Theophilus  gave 
him  a  cordial  invitation.  lie  then  joined  us,  and  came  day 
after  day  for  more  than  two  years. 

"  He  became  a  strange,  silent  man.  He  shunned  the  so- 
ciety of  all  the  other  disciples,  but  appeared  eager  to  be  with 
the  master.  Some  great  load  was  on  his  mind.  As  I  used 
to  be  much  with  the  master,  I  often  was  present  at  times 
when  Cleon  was  asking  some  of  his  pecuhar  questions. 

"  The  master's  great  aim  was  to  teach  that  God  was  holy 
and  just,  and  that  virtue  led  to  immortal  happiness.  Cle- 
on's  great  desire  was  to  find  out  how  a  vicious  man  might 
become  virtuous,  and  attain  to  this  immortality.  He  looked 
back  upon  a  life  from  which  he  now  turned  with  loathing ; 
but  the  recollection  of  that  former  life  filled  him  with  re- 
morse. His  great  fear  was  that  for  some  horrible  deed,  which 
he  wou  '  never  name,  vengeance  would  be  wrought  on  him. 

"  The  master  tried  to  persuade  him,  that,  since  he  had  now 
turned  from  this  life  and  was  striving  after  virtue,  it  was  us 
much  as  he  could  do.     But  Cleon  was  not  satisfied  with  this. 

" '  I  have  remorse !  remorse !.'  he  said,  once,  in  piercing 
tones ;  '  it  is  killing  me.     Your  lofty  teachings  may  do  for 


■m 


The  Boy  and  his  Nurse. 


55 


dis- 
)oke 

the 
man 
(  be- 
1  the 
tnsort 

with 
ler  80 
les  so 


the  virtuous  iniin,  who  has  never  rnllen.  But  whcu  ono 
has  faUcn  us  low  as  1,  it  is  impious  to  think  of  God.' 

"  '  God  will  hear  you  if  you  cull.' 

"'No,'  said  Clcon,  'I  have  tried.  But  it  is  impiety  to 
call  on  him.  Could  I  tell  you  that  which  I  have  done,  you 
yourself  would  see  that  there  is  notliinjj;  for  rae  but  ven- 
geance. Oh,  how  gladly  would  1  do  anything  to  rid  myself 
of  this  remorse  !  How  I  wi-h  I  could  have  the  lot  of  Gid- 
ipus,  to  whom,  according  to  the  legend,  the  fiites  had  pointed 
out  the  place  where  he  might  at  last  find  peace.  I  would  go 
to  the  presence  of  the  awful  goddesses,  and  wait  for  the  end, 
even  if  it  were  the  dreau  summons  from  the  under  world.' 

"This  was  his  trouble,  —  remorse  for  some  dark  oti'ence 
which  he  would  not  name,  and  utter  hopelessness  of  escape 
from  his  suffering  of  mind. 

"  '  I  feel,'  said  he,  on  one  occasion, '  that  there  is  no  hope. 
Immortality  is  only  a  curse  to  me.  To  live  forever  is  to 
suffer  forever.  The  thought  of  God  is  worst  of  all.  For 
what  am  I?  /  pray  to  him^  Impossible.  And  yet  he 
alone  could  answer  the  dread  questions  of  my  mind.  He 
alone  could /o/'z/jye.  Oh,  if  I  could  but  go  to  him!  But 
he  is  to  me  more  terrible  than  the  Implacable  Furies.' 

"  At  last  we  saw  the  end  of  him.  He  came  to  the  master, 
one  day,  and  told  him  that  he  should  die  if  he  remained  in 
Athens.  He  would  try  an  active  life.  He  would  enter  the 
Roman  army.  Perhaps  a  life  if  campaigns  would  distract 
his  thoughts,  and  lessen  his  remorse.  And  so  he  went.  The 
master  could  do  nothing  for  him.  He  felt  this  most  keenly. 
Melancholy  came  over  him.  His  old  confidence  was  gone. 
He  saw  new  problems  rising  before  him,  of  which  he  had  not 
thought  before,  and  which  he  was  utterly  unable  to  solve." 

"  And  did  Cleon  never  tell  his  crime  ? "  asked  Helena, 
who  had  listened  with  the  deepest  interest  to  this  story. 

"  He  did,"  responded  Cineas ;  "  and  also  his  true  name." 

Had  Cineas  looked  at  the  nurse,  at  this  moment,  he  would 
have  been  astonished  at  the  change  that  had  come  over  hei-. 


r  I 


*p 


56 


The  Boy  and  his  Nurse. 


fc.'''' 


During  the  beginning  of  his  narrative  she  hiul  cahnly  pro- 
ceeded wltli  her  embroidery ;  but  at  length  she  dropped  it, 
and  looked  earnestly  at  him.  Overpowering  emotion  seemed 
to  subdue  all  her  iself-eontrol.  Her  faee,  always  pale,  now 
became  livid.  Her  limbs  grew  rigid ;  and,  ela-ping  her 
bunds  tightly,  she  stared  fixedly  at  the  sp(ak(!r.  Siu  now 
awaited,  in  breathless  suspense,  the  conclusion.  The  others 
did  not  see  her,  and  Cineas  sat  with  his  eyes  pensively  fixed 
on  the  floor. 

"  Yes,  he  told  Theophilus  all,"  pursued  Cineas.  "  He  be- 
longed, as  I  have  said,  to  Crete.  He  had  been  well  brought 
up,  but  in  early  youth  had  fallen  into  vice.  He  scjuandered 
his  father's  property  and  broke  his  heart.  He  then  took  to 
gambling;  and,  finally,  in  a  moment  of  atrocious  hard-heait- 
edness,  he  carried  away  his  own  mother  to  Cyrene,  and  sold 
her  as  a  slave." 

Helena's  heart  grew  cold  within  her.  But  another  thing 
now  diverted  her  thoughts.  It  was  the  nurse.  Rising  from 
her  seat,  she  tottered,  rather  than  walked,  over  to  Cineas ; 
and,  leaning  heavily  on  his  shoulders,  with  a  fearful,  w«ild 
glance,  gasped  out,  — 

"  His  name  —  his  real  name  ?  " 

Cineas  looked  up  and  shuddered.  A  thought  came  to 
him  of  all  the  bitter  truth.  But  it  was  too  late  now.  He 
groaned  and  answered,  — 

"  Philo  of  Crete." 

The  nurse  gave  a  heavy  gasp,  and  sank  to  the  floor. 
Helena  shrieked,  and  Marcus,  springing  toward  the  nurse, 
flung  himself  upon  the  prostrate  form,  uttering  wild  lamenta- 
tions. 

"  Alas !  "  cried  Cineas,  "  what  have  I  done  ?  Wretch 
that  I  am  ! " 

"  You !     What  have  you  done  ?     What  is  it  all  ?  " 

"Take  her  to  her  room.  And  O  Helena,  be  tender  to 
her.  She  may  revive ;  she  may  be  restored.  Be  loving 
and  very  tender  to  her,  for  she  was  his  mother  !  " 


'  pro- 
led  it, 
loined 
!,  now 
IT   her 
V   now 
oihers 
(T  iixcd 

He  bc- 

)rougl»t 
indercd 
took  to 
j-lieart- 
md  sold 

er  thing 
Ing  from 

Cineas ; 

;ul,  wAld 


came  to 
ow.     He 


he  floor. 

iie  nurse, 

lamenta- 

Wretcli 


tender  to 
3e  loving 


V. 


THE  MINISTER  OF  CJESAR. 

HE  niirso  did  not  speedily  recover.  The  shock  had 
been  both  siidlen  and  shaip,  and  her  aged  frame 
sunk  beneath  it.  Yet  Helena  surrounded  her  with 
all  the  care  which  could  be  bestowed,  and  showed 
S?'/'  t^  her  as  much  attention,  as  though  she  were  her  own 
mother.  That  slie  was  a  slave,  made  no  difference 
to  the  gcmerous-hcarted  lady. 
The  position,  of  the  Roman  slave  was  both  better  and 
worse  than  now.  There  was  no  bar  of  color  between  him 
an<l  his  master.  He  was  often,  like  Isaac,  a  man  of  wide  ac- 
quirements, and  brilliant  talents,  far  surpassing  his  master  in 
every  intellectual  exercise.  The  slave  was  often  of  high  cul- 
ture, and  most  polished  manners.  His  duties  were  as  wide 
as  his  abilities,  and  the  care  of  large  estates  was  often  left  in 
his  hands.  There  was  nothing  to  make  him  miserable  but 
the  absence  of  liberty,  and  this  he  could  obtain  by  purchase. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  greatest  ill-treatment  was  allowed. 
Nothing  stood  between  the  wretched  slave  and  the  most  bru- 
tal master.  The  most  atrocious  cruelty  was  common,  and 
the  sight  of  slaves  hanging  on  the  cross,  or  dying  in  agony  of 
other  kinds,  was  not  untrequent.  Their  numbers  were  vast, 
and  it  has  been  estimated  that  the  entire  slave  population  of 
the  Roman  world  equalled  the  free  population,  which  would 
amount  to  sixty  millions  of  souls. 

f'or  many  weeks  the  poor  nurse  lay  hovering  between  life 
and  death.  Marcus  was  inconsolable,  and  in  his  lamentations 
over  her,  he  showed  the  source  whence  he  had  obtained 

(67) 


S8 


./ 


The  Minister  of  CcBsar. 


If' 


;;it 


pi' 


|l|,.: 

MllfuP    '■'    ' 

those  ideas  which  seemed  so  new  and  strange  to  Helena  and 
Cineas. 

"  Ah  nurse,  noy  dearest,"  he  would  exclaim,  as  he  tenderly 
stroked  her  poor  thin  hand,  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  "  my 
dearest,  who  will  now  tell  me  of  God  and  the  kingdom  of 
heaven,  and  the  sweet  stories  that  I  learned  from  you  ? 
And  she  does  not  speak  a  word,  though  perhaps  she  may  be 
leaving  me  forever.  Will  she  never  speak  again,  deai 
motiier  ?  " 

"  Was  it  from  her,  Marcus,  that  you  learned  those  beauti- 
ful words  which  you  have  told  me  ?  "  asked  Helena,  and 
slue  looked  with  a  newer  and  deeper  interest  upon  that  pale 
and  mournful  face,  whose  expression  was  so  familiar  to  her. 
"  From  her  ?  " 

"  Yes,  all,  and  far  more  than  I  could  tell  you.  She  talks 
so  beautifully,  while  I  hear  her  I  wish  to  be  away  in  the  bright 
world  where  He  went." 

"  He  ?  who  ?  " 

"  The  Saviour." 

"  What  Saviour  ?  I  don't  understand." 

"  Why,  the  Saviour  is  the  name  she  gives  to  the  dear  God 
to  whom  she  prays,  for  he  loved  us,  and  saved  us.  But  you 
know  this,  don't  you  ?  " 

Helena  was  silent,  and  regarded  the  nurse  musingly. 
She  thought  that  perhaps,  there,  she  might  find  something 
better  for  her  at  least,  than  the  philosophy  of  Cineas.  Per- 
haps she  could  learn  the  secret  source  of  that  calm  resigna- 
tion, and  holy  sweetness,  which  marked  all  her  actions  and 
words. 

It  was  a  kind  of  stupor  which  now  oppressed  her.  Isaac, 
who  was  not  only  the  librarian,  but  the  physician  of  this 
household,  held  out  hopes  of  her  recovery,  but  said  that  it 
would  be  long  before  she  would  regain  her  former  strength. 
Jjike  many  of  his  countrymen,  he  vviw  skilful  in  the  healing 
art,  as  far  as  it  was  known  at  the  time.     He  was  deeply  i*ead 


The  Minister  of  CcBsar. 


59 


in  all  the  writings  of  the  physicians,  and  had  studied  the 
cliJiracter  and  uses  of  many  herbs. 

Tiie  nurse  for  a  long  time  recognized  no  one.  Her  mind 
wandered  incessantly.  The  secret  thoughts  of  her  heart 
were  murmured  out  in  delirium,  and  Helena  heard  much 
of  that  deep  sorrow  which  had  been  kept  hidden  in  her 
breast  for  years. 

In  her  wandering  thoughts  she  spoke  much  of  her  home 
in  Crete,  and  named  cities  there  familiar  to  Helena.  She 
often  spoke  of  her  son,  and  seemed  to  believe  herself  once 
more  holding  him  in  her  arms,  a  little  boy.  At  times  out- 
breaks of  feeling  would  occur,  and  she  would  murmur  words 
of  agony.  Sometimes  for  hours  she  would  utter  the  words, 
"  Betrayed  !  betrayed  !  and  by  him  !  " 

After  a  time  calmness  succeeded,  and  her  wandering 
thoughts  turned  to  other  things.  Words  of  broken  prayer 
—  to  one  whom  she  addressed  as  her  Saviour  —  began  to  bo 
more  frequent,  intermingled  with  many  things  which  Helena 
could  not  understand. 

She  spoke  of  her  Saviour  as  living  a  life  of  suffering ;  o*" 
his  agony  and  grief.  She  said  that  he,  too,  was  betrayed, 
and  by  his   riend. 

"  What  it:  all  this  ?  "  she  asked  Marcus. 

And  Marcus  told  her  a  wonderful  story.  It  was  incohe- 
rent, and  unfinished,  as  though  he  knew  not  all,  but  it  re- 
lated the  sufferings  of  One  whom  Marcus  called  the  God  or 
Saviour  of  his  piayers. 

All  this  awakened  strange  hopes  within  Helena.  She 
longed  to  know  all  this  secret.  She  half  felt  that  here  there 
was  an  answer  to  her  own  earnest  desires. 

At  last,  one  day  when  Isaac  was  present,  the  nurse  began 
her  usual  prayers,  and  this  time  repeated  over  and  over 
again  one  name  which  produced  a  remarkable  effect  on  one, 
at  least,  of  the  listeners. 

It  was  tlie  name  Jesus  Christ. 

It  was  the  Jew  upon  whom  this  remarkable  effect  was 


6o 


The  Minister  of  Ccesa?'. 


m 


produced.  His  countenance  grew  dark,  and  his  eyes  flashed 
fire.  Struggling  for  a  long  time  with  some  strong  internal 
rmotion,  he  at  length  muttered,  in  words  of  forced  calm- 
ness, — 

"  She  is  one  of  these  Christians." 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  bitter  contempt  of  his  words. 

"  Christians  ?  "  said  Helena,  "  I  have  heard  much  about 
them,  and  against  them.  What  are  they  ?  "Why  do  you 
feel  so  strongly  about  this  ?  "  she  added,  noticing  that  Isaac 
was  still  overcome  by  emotion. 

Isaac  loved  Helena  with  deep  affection  and  reverence. 
He  felt  ashamed  of  exhibiting  his  wild  excitement  before 
her,  and  sought  to  resume  his  usual  self-control. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  said  he.  "  Our  peo})le  have  suffered 
much  through  these  Christians,  and  I  have  an  old  national 
prejudice." 

"You  hate  them?" 

"  "Worse  than  death,"  exclaimed  Isaac,  for  an  instant  for- 
getting hims  ^f;  but  in  a  moment  he  recollected  himself  and 
said,  "  Pardon  me ;  but  something  of  my  old  national  feeling 
will  at  times  break  out." 

"I  am  sorry  to  have  said  anything  to  excite  il,"  said 
Helena,  rather  compassionately.  "  But  at  any  rate  you  will 
not  include  her  in  your  hate.  She  is  my  truest  and  most 
devoted  companion." 

"  For  your  sake,"  said  Isaac,  "  I  would  sacrifice  any  hate. 
But  apart  from  that  you  ne(!d  have  no  fear.  "When  I  act  as 
a  physician  I  never  think  of  personal  feeling.  My  science 
is  at  the  disposal  of  those  on  whom  it  is  exercised,  and  if  I 
paid  one  visit  to  my  worst  enemy,  I  would  try  my  best, 
solely  on  account  of  my  science,  to  cure  him  again." 

Such  scenes  were  frequent  in  that  quiet  chamber,  but 
Isaac  never  again  showed  any  trace  of  feeling.  He  fell 
again  into  his  former  quiet  habit,  visited  the  pati(;nt,  di- 
rected the  application  of  the  remedies,  and  exerted  all  his 
skill. 


The  Minister  of  Ccesar,  6i 

So  the  weeks  went  on. 

During  this  sickness  of  the  nurse  Cineas  was  fully  oceu- 
pied  with  his  own  thoughts.  He  was  often  closeted  with 
Isaac,  and  the  examination  of  the  accounts  went  on  rapidly. 
Enough  began  to  be  discovered  to  awaken  alarm,  and  show 
that  their  worst  suspicions  were  well  founded. 

One  day  Cineas  thought  of  paying  a  visit  to  Burrhus,  the 
chief  officer  of  the  Praetorians,  and  greatest  man  in  the  em- 
pire next  to  Nero  himself.  He  and  Seneca  had  been  the 
preceptors  of  the  emperor,  and  while  the  latter  taught  him 
philosophy,  the  former  instructed  him  in  military  science. 

The  palace  of  Burrhus  was  one  of  the  most  sumptuous  in 
Rome.  Extensive  parks  surrounded  it,  and  several  acres 
of  ground  were  covered  over  with  a  spacious  roofing,  sup- 
ported by  marble  columns,  affording  a  place  of  exercise  in 
wet  weather.  The  palace  was  very  large,  and  in  the  vesti- 
bule was  an  equestrian  statue  of  the  master. 

Crowds  of  clients  were  outside  waiting  in  front  of  the 

steward's  door,  to  receive  the  "  sportula,"  or  little  basket, 

containing  the  daily  allowance  of  money  or  victuals  with 

whicli  the  heads  of  great  houses  furnished  their  followers. 

said        ^^H        As  Cineas  came  up  he  noticed  some  confusion  in  the  crowd. 

11  will        ^HB        ^*  seems  that  one  of  the  clients  had  brought  a  close  litter,  in 

most  ^'Wm        which  he  said  his  wife  was.     The  steward  would  not  believe 

him,  and  refused  to  give  the  wife's  allowance  till  he  had  seen 

whether  she  was  really  inside  or  not.     In  vain  the  client 

protested  that  his  wife  was  sick,  and  asleep.     The  steward 

persisted  in  opening  it,  and  found  it  empty.     He  then,  in 

great  indignation,  refused  to  give  the  client  even  his  own 

share,  and  was  driving  him  off,  amid  the  laughter  of  the 

crowd,  as  Cineab  came  up. 

On  entering  tlie  hall  he  found  a  large  number  awaiting 
their  turn  to  be  admitted  into  the  presence  of  the  great  man. 
Cineas  gave  a  liberal  bribe  to  one  of  the  servants,  and  told 
him  to  carry  his  name  to  his  master.  Orders  came  to  ad- 
mit him  at  once. 
6 


if' 


62 


The  MinisU.  of  CiBsar, 


„., 


Milili      I 


*  Cineas  went  in,  and  Biinluis  rose  with  an  expression  of 
sincere  pleasure  and  embraced  Iiim. 

He  was  an  elderly  man,  of  fine  military  air,  dressed  in  the 
rich  costume  of  general  of  the  haughty  PraJtorian  body. 
All  other  clients  were  at  once  dismissed,  and  Cineas  was  left 
alone  with  Burrhus. 

"  What !  my  dearest  Athenian.  How  have  you  managed 
to  tear  yourself  away  from  the  Acropolis?  Let  m6  assure 
you  that  you  do  me  a  double  favor,  first  in  showing  me  your- 
self, and  then  in  ridding  me  of  my  clients." 

Then  followed  many  questions  as  to  his  health,  the  time 
of  his  arrival,  and  his  whereabouts.  He  gently  reproved 
Cineas  for  not  coming  before,  and  offered  to  do  anything  for 
him  in  his  power. 

After  all  the  usual  preliminaries  which  attend  the  meeting 
of  two  friends,  Cineas  asked  if  there  were  any  tidings  from 
Britain. 

"  No  —  nothing,"  said  Burrhus.  "  It  looks  dark ;  but  we 
all  have  confidence  in  Suetonius.  Ah !  I  see  —  Labeo  is 
there.  Well,  I  believe  he  will  I'eturn  in  safety,  after  all. 
With  these  barbarians  the  fashion  is  to  make  one  great  at- 
tack, and  then  allow  themselves  to  be  cut  in  pieces." 

Burrhus  treated  Cineas  with  kind  familiarity.  In  his 
youth  he  himself  had  been  much  at  Athens,  where  he  had 
become  attached  to  the  father  of  Cineas,  who  was  a  man  of 
enormous  wealth,  and  lived  in  the  utmost  state  and  splendor, 
liurrhus  had  afterwards  seen  him  from  time  to  time,  and  in 
later  visits  to  Athens  he  had  manifested  a  warm  affection  for 
Cineas,  then  in  his  early  youth.  So  he  now  found  much  to 
ask  about,  and  evidently  relished,  in  the  highest  degree,  the 
company  of  his  old  friend. 

Suddenly,  while  talking  of  Labeo,  he  said,  — 

"  You  have  a  bad  man  out  there,  —  a  very  bad  man,  —  the 
steward  Hegio." 

Cineas  was  surprised  at  this. 

"  Why  !  "  said  he.     "  How  do  you  know  this  ?  " 


^J 


The  Minister  of  Ct^sar. 


^Z 


of 


n  his 

had 

laan  of 

endor. 

md  in 

tion  for 

luch  to 

ce,  the 


.  —  the 


"  Oh,  I  have  my  spies  everywhere,  and  ean  tell  you  all 
about  him.  He  uses  his  master's  money  for  speculations, 
and  some  day  it  will  all  vanish.  You  had  better  see  to 
him." 

"That  ifl  the  very  thing  that  I  am  how  doing,"  said 
Cineas,  and  he  then  described  the  examination  of  the  ac- 
counts which  was  then  going  on. 

"  That's  right.  You  will  have  to  be  a  little  careful.  All 
that  this  shrewd  Jew  of  yours  has  told  you  is  true.  Hegio 
has  attached  himself  to  this  villain  Tigellinus." 

"And  is  Tigellinus  on  good  terms  with  the  emperor?  " 

"  On  the  best.  He  is  an  unprincipled  scoundrel,  and  does 
anything  to  get  into  the  emperor's  favor." 

Cineas  was  silent.  Thoughts  of  what  that  emperor  was 
came  into  his  mind.  Already  Nero's  name  was  a  terror  to 
llie  human  race.  The  influence  of  Burrhus  and  Seneca  had 
died  out,  and  although  they  were  still  in  favor,  yet  Nero  had 
long  since  gone  far  beyond  their  control.  The  grossest  de- 
bauchery, the  most  horrible  profligacy,  and  the  murder  of 
some  of  the  noblest  of  Rome,  all  these  crimes  had  been  crowned 
and  perfected  by  the  murder  of  his  mother  and  rang  in  the 
ears  of  the  world.  Yet  other  crimes  were  yet  in  the  future, 
as  hideous  as  these,  and  more  deadly.  About  such  a  ruler 
it  was  not  wise  to  say  anything,  and  both  Burrhus  and 
Cineas,  while  talking  familiarly  about  everything  else,  were 
reserved  and  silent  on  this  one  point. 

At  length,  after  a  silence  of  a  few  moments,  Burrhus  be- 
gan, — 

"  I  had  a  somewhat  singular  visitor  this  morning,  my  dear 
Cineas,  and  regret  that  you  did  not  come  earlier,  so  as  to  be 
present  at  oui"  interview." 

"  Who  was  he  ?  " 

"  Oh,  a  Syrian,  —  a  Jew,  rather ;  the  great  leader  of  all 
these  Christians  that  one  hears  so  much  about  now.  His 
name  is  Paul." 


f 


TV",    -  ^~!Ji_ 


64 


T/ic  Minister  of  Ccesar. 


iiiiii 
fill- 


ill 


"  Paul ! "  said  Cinesis,  with  an  appimrmice  of  the  deepest 
interest.     "  What  sort  of  a  man  is  he  ?  " 

"A  man  of  small  stature,  thin  and  meagre,  with  a  very 
remarkable  face.  A  singularly  prepossessing  man  in  his 
appearance.  His  eyes  are  very  piercing,  and  he  seems  to 
read  your  thoughts ;  and  there  is  a  kind  of  fervid  fanaticism 
in  his  manner  that  quite  impressed  me.  I  like  to  see  a  man 
in  earnest  about  something,  and  this  man  is  deeply  in  ear- 
nest. He  told  me  a  long  series  of  persecutions  which  he 
had  endured  in  behalf  of  his  new  doctrines,  and  seemed 
perfectly  willing  to  endure  as  much  more.  I  never  saw  a 
higher  spirit  or  more  devoted  courage  in  any  man.  What 
particularly  impressed  me  was  this,  —  that,  although  he  was 
a  perfect  fanatic,  he  had  none  of  tliat  offensive  self-assertion, 
which  is  almost  universal  in  men  of  that  stamp.  On  the 
contrary,  he  was  singularly  modest  and  perfectly  courteous. 
His  manner  exhibited  the  utmost  refinement  and  good-breed- 

"  I  opened  the  conversation  in  a  friendly  way ;  and,  as  I 
took  a  liking  to  him  from  the  outset,  I  conducted  the  exam- 
ination in  a  familiar  manner,  and  by  chance,  the  conversa- 
tion turned  on  literature,  with  which  I  found  him  thoroughly 
familiar.  I  then  found  that  his  hot-headed  countrymen, 
after  a  long  series  of  pei'secutions,  had  put  him  in  prison, 
and  finally  he  was  compelled  to  appeal  to  Ccesar.  Being  a 
Roman  citizen,  he  could  do  this. 

"This  I  learned  by  questions.  At  length,  I  asked  him 
to  explain  his  principles  to  me.  I  was  t.aken  with  the  man, 
and  felt  curious  to  see  what  it  was  for  which  he  had  suffered 
so  much.  Having  received  permission  from  me,  and  even 
encouragement  to  speak  freely,  he  began  a  most  extraor- 
dinary story,  which  seems  inexplicable  to  me,  as  I  am  a 
plain  soldier ;  but  perhaps  you  or  Seneca,  who  are  philoso- 
phers, might  account  for  it. 

"  He  informed  me  that  a  great  teacher  had  appeared  among 
the  Jews,  who  proclaimed  himself  to  be  a  god,  or  rather  the 


The  Minis tcf  of  Casar, 


6s 


only  God ;  and  the  Jews,  in  their  usual  style,  persecuted 
him,  and  finally  had  him  tried  before  Pilate  and  executed. 
All  this  was  familiar  to  me  before,  but  his  way  of  represent- 
ing these  facts  was  very  remarkable. 

"  It  seems  that  he  was  very  bitterly  opposed  to  the  follow- 
ers of  this  nuin,  and  took  an  active  part  in  putting  them  to 
death.  But  one  day,  when  on  the  road  to  Damascus  to 
carry  on  his  work  more  extensively,  he  was  startled  by  a 
sudden  vision ;  and  he  affirms  that  he  distinctly  saw,  in  the 
skies,  the  form  of  this  mysterious  Jesus,  who  called  upon  him 
to  desist  from  his  work.  He  was  so  affected  that  he  bectwne 
a  Christian  himself.  But  I  cannot  give  you  any  idea  of  the 
story  as  he  told  it.  I  felt  thaPhe,  at  least,  believed  what  he 
was  saying,  whether  I  did  or  not.  He  was  thoroughly  hon- 
est —  a  marvel  in  these  times. 

"  He  went  on  to  tell  me  much  about  his  doctrines,  —  that 
this  Jesus  is  the  Son  of  God  ;  that  the  soul  is  immortal,  and 
that  he  died  to  save  it ;  but  I  confess  that  all  this  was  rather 
beyond  me,  as  I  never  took  much  interest  in  subjects  of  this 
kind.  Yet  he  believed  it;  ard  that  was  what  surprised 
me.  IIe_was  willing  to  die  for  this  beli .".  How  many  men 
in  Rome,  my  dear  Cineas,  would  feel  in  this  way  ? 

"  But  I  cannot  give  you  any  idea  of  his  forcible  way  of 
speaking.  It  was  not  art,  but  nature.  Although  I  did  not 
understand  a  word  he  said,  yet  I  felt  that  it  was  all  true ; 
his  manner  made  me  feel  so.  I  thought,  while  listening  and 
looking  at  him,  of  the  familiar  lines  of  old  Homer,  — 

"  '  But  when  he  broke  the  silence,  'tAvas  a  voice  of  mighty  spell, 
And  words  liiie  wintry  snow-flakes  on  all  the  hearers  fell. 
Was  none  in  all  that  council  to  answer  what  they  heard; 
His  aspect  was  forgotten;  we  marvelled  at  his  Avord.'  " 


il  among 
ther  the 


"  What  became  of  him  ?  "  asked  Cineas,  who  had  listened 
most  attentively. 

"  Why,  I  let  him  go.  From  the  first  ^  knew  the  man, 
and  the  examination  was  a  form.     So  I  sei--  him  away  with 


8« 


66 


The  MinH^tcr  of  Ccesar, 


m. 


!l  i 


i'l!!! 


I  ! 


friendly  words,  and  told  him  that  I  should  like  to  see  him 
and  hear  him  again.  He  looked  at  nie  respectfully,  but 
half  reproachfully,  as  though  he  felt  tiiat  I  would  forget  liim, 
and  never  hear  again  the  doctrine  which  he  valued  so  highly, 
—  and  per]uij).s  I  will;  —  but  he  said  nothing  more  on  that 
point ;  and,  after  expressing  his  thanks  for  my  moderation 
and  justice,  he  took  his  leave  with  grave  courtesy  and  re- 
tired." 

Cineas  said  nothing  for  some  moments.  The  deep  at- 
tention with  which  he  had  listened  to  the  story  of  his  exam- 
ination, showed  that  it  possessed  no  slight  interest  in  his 
mind.  Burrhus  seemed  pleased  with  his  evident  interest; 
for  it  showed  him  that  he  had  started  a  subject  of  no  little 
importance  tc  the  mind  of  his  visitor.  At  length,  Cineas 
uttered  a  few  words,  expressive  of  his  admiration  of  this  Jew, 
and  said  he  would  like  t^-^e  him. 

"  You  would  be  evjM^  more  interested  in  him  than  I,  my 
dear  Cineas,"  said  Burrhus;  "for  I  am  a  soldier,  and  you 
are  a  philosopher.  To  you  this  man's  doctrines  would  be 
welcome.  You  could  understand  them,  and  discuss  them. 
But  I  have  not  the  power  of  doing  either." 

Much  conversation  followed  of  a  varied  character. 

"  You  will  wish  to  have  an  interview  with  Ciesar,  per- 
haps ?  "  said  Burrhus,  after  a  time,  in  an  inquiring  tone. 

Cineas  paused.  "  Yes,"  he  at  length  answered,  "  after 
this  suspense  about  Labeo  is  over." 

"  You  had  better,"  said  Burrhus.  "  His  taste  would  be 
gratified  by  your  peculiar  accomplishments.  He  has  two- 
fold tastes,  —  one  for  letters,  the  other  for  sensuality.  Tigel- 
linus  seeks  advancement  by  fostering  the  latter;  but  let  me 
tell  you,  Cineas,  that  you  might  for  a  short  time  rival  even 
TigeUinus,  if  you  went  to  him  with  a  new  theory  of  versifi- 
cation." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Cineas.  "  When  I  go,  I  will  know 
how  to  act." 

"  When  you  go,  take  him  some  new  thing  in  music  or 


niiniliiii 


The  Minister  of  CcBsar. 


«7 


poetry,  ami  follow  it  up  by  talking  enthusiastically  about  art. 
You  will  succeed  at  once.  1  am  in  earnest  about  this,"  said 
liiu-rhus.  *'  ScMieca  mij^ht  still  have  retained  his  influence 
if  he  had  retained  his  former  spirit.  But  he  is  growing  old, 
and  is  not  so  much  of  a  poet  as  a  philosopher.  When  you 
•TO  to  Caesar  don't  be  too  philosophic.  Be  a  poet !  —  be  a 
poet!" 

Cineas  smiled ;  and  when  he  took  his  leave,  shortly  af- 
terward, the  last  words  that  Burrhus  said  were,  "  Remem- 
ber!   Be  a  poet!" 

Cineas  had  much  to  think  of  as  he  rode  out  home.  It 
was  late  in  the  day  when  he  reached  the  gate  of  the  villa. 
A  loud  noise  arrested  his  attention.  It  sounded  like  a  fierce 
altercation.  He  recognized  the  hated  voice  of  the  steward 
Hegio,  who,  in  his  most  insolent  tones,  was  ordering  some 
one  away. 

"  Be  gone ! "  said  he.  "  Have  I  not  already  told  you  that 
he  is  not  here  ?  " 

"  Away,  scoundrel !  "  retorted  the  other.     "  Let  me  pass, 
or  I  will  break  your  head !  " 
«  You  ? " 

"  Yes,  I,  impudent  whip-knave !  vile  hangdog !     Did  you 
not  get  beatings  enough  when  you  were  a  slave,  that  you 
tempt  me  to  give  you  another  now  ?  " 
Hegio  foamed  at  the  mouth  with  passion. 
"  I'm  a  Roman  citizen ! "  said  he.     "  I'll  call  the  slaves, 
and  give  you  a  beating." 

"  You,  a  Roman  citizen ! "  roared  the  other,  with  a  bitter, 
contemptuous  laugh.  "You  dog  of  a  Syrian!  Why,  it's 
only  the  other  day  that  you  were  put  up  for  sale  in  the 
market,  with  your  feet  chalked,  like  the  other  slaves,  as  a 
new  and  fresh  imported  article.  You,  you  hangdog,  a  Ro- 
man citizen  ?  —  a  co:  miodity  brought  over  along  with  figs 
and  dates  and  classified  with  them  ?  Off,  fool,  or  I'll  strike 
you  dead ! " 
He  strode  toward  Hegio.     Cineas  at  this  moment  came 


^r 


68 


The  Minister  of  Ccesar. 


up.  Ho  hud  lijaid  whiit  luid  been  said,  and  perceived,  at  a 
glance,  that  the  stranger  was  able  to  assert  his  own  rights 
for  himself,  lie  was  a  strongly-built  man,  of  military  air, 
and  appeared  to  be  about  fifty  years  of  age.  Ilegio,  on  see- 
ing him  Jipproach,  fell  back  a  pace  or  two,  and  called  loudly 
to  the  slaves :  "  Corbalio  !  Storax  !    Ho !  seize  this  man !  " 

Tli(!  ruixt  tiionient  a  migli'y  hand  was  laid  on  his  throat. 
Hcgio  struggled  and  struck  out  wildly.  But  his  Syrian 
limbs  w(!re  no  match  for  the  mighty  sinews  of  his  antagonist, 
which  had  been  trained  in  Roman  disci[)line,  and  hardened 
in  a  hundred  campaigns.  With  a  mighty  effort  he  hurled 
the  steward  back,  and  dashed  him  violently  to  the  earth. 

By  this  time,  a  number  of  stout  slaves  had  come  to  the 
spot.  Hegio  raised  himself  up  and  roared  to  them  to  seize 
the  stranger.  Cineas  had  dismounted,  and  was  percoived 
for  the  first  time  by  the  stranger  and  Hegio.  He  waved 
his  hands  to  the  slaves,  motioning  them  back  as  they  ad- 
vanced, and  turned  to  the  stranger. 

"  Seize  him !  "  screamed  Hegio,  again,  utterly  disregard- 
ing Cineas,  in  his  passion,  and  trying  to  urge  the  slaves  on. 

"  If  you  don't  keep  silence,"  said  Cineas,  coldly,  "  they 
shall  seize  you."  And,  with  bitter  contempt,  he  turned  his 
back  on  Hegio.     The  Syrian  scowled  darkly  on  liira. 

"  Health  to  you,  noble  Cineas,"  said  the  stranger.  "  My 
name  is  Aurulenus  Carbo  ;  and  I  came  here  this  morning  at 
the  request  of  my  son  Julius,  who  is  a  centurion  of  Au- 
gustus' band,  and  has  a  strong  friendship  for  you." 

"Julius?"  cried  Cineas,  earnestly,  "the  father  of  Julius? 
Much  health  to  you,  my  friend.  I  have  often  longed  to  meet 
with  you."     And  he  embraced  the  stranger- 

"  Whoever  you  are,"  cried  Hegio,  rudely  interrupting, 
"  Begone,  or"  — 

"  What  ! "  exclaimed  Cineas ;  "  don't  you  know  that  if  I 
give  the  word,  these  slaves  will  be  only  too  glad  to  seize  you, 
and  scourge  the  life-blood  out  of  you  ?  Begone !  fool  that  you 
are!  and  don't  draw  on  yourself  worse  punishment  1  Away!" 


The  Minister  of  desar. 


69 


«My 


f  Au- 


Lway 


1" 


Ilcijio's  oyps  sank  beforo  the  fiery  glance  of  Cinea:^,  and 
uith  nuittered  curses  he  slowly  turned  and  walked  away. 

"  Let  ine  offer  my  apologies,  my  friend,"  said  Cineas,  for 
lh(!  insolence  of  this  rulRan.  "  He  is  a  scoundrel,  whom  I  am 
even  now  preparing  to  punish  as  he  deserves." 

"  No  apologies  are  needed,  from  you,  certainly,"  said 
Carho.  "  And  besides,  you  have  seen  that  I  avenged  my- 
self. But  I  am  not  surprised  at  this.  Every  great  house 
is  full  of  these  scoundrels,  who  are  allowed  to  insult  with 
impunity  all  who  do  not  come  with  a  great  retinue.  Pah! 
\a'X  us  talk  no  more  of  him.  Rome  is  full  of  these  Syrian 
dogs.  The  River  Orontes  discharges  itself  here,  and  the 
Aviiole  state  is  filled  with  the  abominations  of  the  East. 
Ihjt  I  will  tell  you  why  I  came.  My  son  Julius  arrived 
here  some  two  months  ago,  and  never  knew  till  yesterday 
that  you  were  here.  As  he  was  busy  to-day,  he  could  not 
come  in  person  to  see  you.  So  I  came  in  his  place ;  for  I 
well  know  all  that  you  have  done  for  him,  and  I  wish  to 
thank  you  for  saving  liim  from  vice  and  ruin.  He  has  told 
me,  noble  Cineas,  that,  when  he  was  stationed  at  Athens, 
he  yielded  to  temptation,  and  was  rapidly  sinking  to  ruin. 
You  found  him,  and  at  a  moment  when  he  was  irretrievably 
in  (1(  l)t  from  gambling,  and  the  loss  of  his  rank  and  ruin 
were  before  him.  You  found  him  when  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  kill  himself,  and  brought  him  to  your  society, 
and  paid  all  his  debts,  and,  what  is  better,  taught  him  to 
seek  after  virtue.  What  is  the  use  of  words?  He  was 
saved,  and  through  you.  Noble  Cineas,  a  father  thanks  you 
for  the  salvation  of  his  son." 

The  stern  Roman,  who  had  spoken  all  .this  without  re- 
garding Cineas'  attempts  to  interrupt  or  deprecate  his 
praises,  now  seized  his  hand  and  pressed  it  warmly. 

"You  give  me  altogether  too  much  praise,"  bega^  Cineas; 
but  Carbo  interrupted  him,  — 

"There,  there  —  enough.     I  will  never  allude  to  it  again. 


•^r^r^mw 


i 


yo 


77ic  Minister  of  CcBsar. 


m 


''11 


1 1 


I  hate  praise ;  but  i\m  was  your  due.  VVc  will  talk  of 
Boinethiug  else." 

"  Come,  then,"  said  Cineas,  "  let  us  go  in,"  —  and  they 
walked  together  toward  the  house. 

"  I  thought  you  lived  in  Rome,"  said  Cinejw,  as  they 
reclined  on  couches,  and  had  wine  placed  before  them. 
"  Your  son  spoke  of  you  as  having  a  house  in  the  city." 

*'  So  I  did,"  said  Carbo,  "  until  last  year.  But  Rome  was 
always  abhorrent  to  me.  It  is  a  Syrian  city,  and  the  vice 
that  reigns  everywhere  is  terrible  to  an  honest  man.  What 
could  I  do  in  Rome?  I  cannot  lie;  I  cannot  fawn  and 
cringe.  When  I  go  into  a  great  house  I  cannot  dance 
attendance  among  haughty  menials  for  hours,  until  the 
master  gives  me  a  careless  nod.  And  so  I  have  come  forth 
to  a  little  spot  here  in  the  country,  where  I  can  have  fresh 
air  and  liberty." 

"  Do  you  live  near  here  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  my  little  estate  is  only  a  mile  n way..  You 
can  see  the  house,"  and  he  pointed  to  a  small  villa,  peeping 
out  from  among  trees  in  the  distance. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Carbo,  reverting  again  to  Rome ; 
"there  is  no  place  in  the  city  for  honesty,  no  reward  for 
labor.  One's  property  day  after  day  grows  less,  and  the 
next  day  still  less.  I  found  my  little  sjivings  diminishing, 
and  so  1  determined  to  go  forth  into  the  country,  while  a 
little  of  my  life  was  yet  left  me,  while  my  old  age  was  hale 
and  hearty,  and  while  I  could  get  along  without  the  help  of 
a  stall'.  Let  swindlers  stay  there ;  let  those  live  there  who 
can  turn  white  into  black,  who  can  get  a  living  by  thieving 
and  swindling.  The  city  is  full  of  vagabonds,  formerly 
known*  all  over  Italy ;  but  now  they  are  managers  of 
theatres  and  public  spectacles.  Why  shouldn't  they  get 
hold  of  everything?  In  fact,  they  will  in  time.  Such  is 
the  way  in  which  Fortune  jokes  with  us.  No,  no.  Rome 
is  not  the  place  for  me.  I  can't  cheat  the  public  by  setting 
up  as  an  astrologer  or  a  wizard ;  I  can't  and  I  wont  promise 


The  Minister  of  Cicsar, 


71 


to  sin'iiililirifts  the  death  of  their  fathers ;  Tve  never  in- 
Kjiei'ted  the  entniilrt  of  froj^s,  so  as  to  tell  fortunes  from  thcni ; 
if  I  were  a  steward,  no  thieves  could  live  around  me.  And 
tj()  I'm  not  the  man  for  Home,  and  you  see  me  here  ;  and 
here  I  am,  cliattering  on  this  bitter  theme,  which  is  always 
in  my  lliou^^hts.  Excuse  me,  my  fi'icnd ;  but  1  am  a  Ro- 
man of  the  old  sort,  and  it's  a  hard  thing  to  sec  my  country 
going  to  ruin." 

Cincas  assured  him  that  he  sympathized  with  his  feelings, 
and  could  understand  his  bitterness. 

"  lJitt«'rn(.'ss  ?  "  repeated  Carbo.  "  Ay,  who  could  help 
feeling  biderness  to  see  one's  country  handed  over  to  freed- 
inen  and  foreign  dancing-girls.  The  llatterer  is  the  ordy 
one  who  has  a  chance  of  favor.  The  Syrian  can  do  this 
better  than  the  Roman.  He  comes  here  a  slave ;  and, 
before  you  know  it,  he  is  high  in  favor,  and  can  take  a  seat 
above  you  at  the  table.  He  can  lie  about  you,  and  have 
you  excluded  altogether  from  the  house. 

"  There's  no  chance  for  a  poor  man.  Even  in  courts  of 
law  their  oath  is  slighted.  Bring  forward  the  best  of  men, 
—  bring  forward  Numa  in  a  Roman  law  court  now,  and  the 
first  question  would  be  as  to  his  revenue.  How  many 
slaves  dues  he  own?  How  many  acres  does  he  possess? 
The  poor  man  is  thrust  into  the  lowest  places  at  tables  and 
the  worst  seats  in  the  public  spectacles." 

He  stopped  abruptly,  and  began  to  talk  of  something  else, 
in  a  mild  and  very  different  tone.  Cineas  found  that  when 
he  was  speaking  on  any  other  subject,  he  was  grave  and 
culm,  but  when  once  he  commenced  on  the  subject  of  Rome, 
he  was  bitter  and  vehement  and  passionate.  He  loved  his 
country ;  his  penetrating  eye  saw  the  ruin  that  was  over- 
spreading it;  yet  he  saw  not  one  ray  of  hope.  Nor  did 
Cineas.  He,  too,  knew  the  vice  of  the  capit..),  and  did  not 
know  how  it  could  end  at  last.  And  so  the  day  ended,  and 
late  in  the  evening  Carbo  took  his  departure. 


VI. 


THE  OFFICER  WHO  SAILED  WITH  PAUL. 


^j2. 


. 


111! 


!  i; 


FEW   days   afterwards,  Cineas  had  a  visit  from 
Carbo  again,  and  this  time  he  was  accompanied  by 

F^Pvl    ^"^  ^^^  Julius.       The  latter  was  of  about  the  same 

^^^^'^^  age  as  his  friend,  and  wore  the  drei  ■>  of  a  Roman 
Centurion.  He  looked  much  like  his  father,  but 
there  was  more  refinement  in  his  face,  and  courtesy 
in  his  bearing.    Cineas  was  outside  as  they  rode  up, 

and  hastened  to  meet  them.     Julius  flung  himself  from  his 

horse,  and  tenderly  embraced  him. 

"  Health  and  happiness,  my  dearest  friend,"  said  Julius. 

"  How  rejoiced  I  am  to  see  you  again,  and  here  too ! " 
"  Health  and  joy,  dear  Julius,  and  a  thousand  welcomes : 

" '  Who  has  restored  thee  back,  —  a  Roman, 
To  native  gods,  and  this  Italian  clinic?  * 

as  your  Horace  says ;  but  come,  — 

"  '  Come,  lot  the  vow  to  Jove  be  paid, 
And  rest,  beneath  my  laurel  shade, 
Thy  war-worn  frame ;  nor  spavc  the  wine 
Reserved  for  thee,  best  friend  c       'no  ! '  " 

"  What !  "  exclaimed  Julius,  laughingly,  as  he  entered  the 
house  arm  in  arm  with  his  friend,  "  you  condescend  to  quote 
a  Latin  poet,  do  yoik?  — you  fanatical  Greek  !  " 

*'  Oh,  on  such  an  occasion  as  this,  I  would  be  guiUy  of 
any  extravagance.     With  Horace,  — 

"'I'll  be  ns  frantic  as  a  Bacchanal. 

.   'Tis  sweet  to  laugh,  and  play  the  fool, 
When  welcoming  a  friend  within  my  hall.'  " 

(72) 


The  Officer  who  sailed  with  Paul. 


73 


The  three  were  soon  in  the  house,  and  recHnnig  on  ccuch- 
es,  and  wine  was  placed  before  them.  Cineas  plied  his 
friend  with  questions.  He  had  much  to  ask  him,  for  he  had 
nut  heard  from  him  since  .ley  were  in  Athens  together. 

At  length  Cineas  '.'.quired  by  what  fortune  he  had  come 
,0  Roine. 

At  this  question,  the  manner  of  Julius  underwent  a  change. 

"  Cineas,"  said  he,  "  my  adventures  on  this  voyage  are 
ihe  most  marvellous  that  I  have  ever  known." 

"  Tell  me  about  it  by  all  means,  "  said  Cineas,  with  much 
interest. 

Julius  thereupon  began : 

"  There  was  a  certain  remarkable  Jew  in  Palestine  when 
I  was  there,  named  Paul.  This  man  was  distinguished 
for  his  bold  and  ardent  advocacy  of  a  new  religion.  In 
preaching  this,  he  had  endured  pains  and  perils  without  num- 
ber. At  last,  his  enemies  got»hold  of  him,  and  he  was  sub- 
jected to  a  trial.  In  the  mean  time,  he  had  used  his  rights 
as  a  Roman  citizen,  —  he  was  a  rative  of  Tarsus,  —  ai...  a()- 
peak'd  unto  Ciesar.  Festus  would  have  freed  him  if  it  iiad 
not  been  for  this  appeal ;  as  it  was,  he  sent  him  to  Rome,  widi 
some  other  prljoners,  and  I  was  appointed  to  accompany 
them. 

"  I  was  struck  by  the  first  sight  of  my  prisoner.  His  genial 
and  courteous  manner,  his  uncomplaining  disposition,  and 
thorough  kind-heartedness,  would  of  themselves  have  com- 
mended him  to  me.  But  there  was  something  more  in  him, 
for  behind  all  this  there  was  a  solemn,  earnest  purpose,  the 
aim  of  his  life. 

"  He  loved  to  converse  with  any  one  who  was  at  all 
accessible,  and  I  soon  found  myself  engaging  in  long  dis- 
cussions on  those  lofty  themes,  for  which  you,  Cineas,  flrot 
gave  me  a  taste,  —  the  soul,  immortality,  and  God.  Never 
had  I  heard  such  sentiments  as  these,  wliieh  this  man 
had.  At  firs'.,  I  compared  him  to  Socrates  ;  afterwards,  1  felt 
that  all  of  Socrates'  teachings  contained  nothing  like  thesd. 
CO 


7 


74 


The  Officer  zv/io  sailed  xvith  Paid. 


1 1  ■ 


■\v 


!  Il 
J 


m. 


"  He  won  all  my  confidence.  I  told  him  of  my  experience 
in  Athens,  of  my  reform,  of  your  kindness,  of  "  the  master," 
and  his  teachings ;  to  all  of  which  he  listened  with  deep 
interest. 

"  After  the  usual  course,  we  came  to  Myra,  a  city  of  Lycia, 
and  there  I  found  u:i  Alexandrian  vessel,  on  her  way  to 
Italy,  laden  with  grain.     In  this  vessel  we  all  emharked." 

Then  Julius  proceeded  to  give  an  account  of  one  of  the 
most  memorable  voyages  on  record :  the  dangers  of  the  sea ; 
the  harbor  of  refuge  sought  once,  and  afterwards  forsaken ; 
the  dreadful  storm,  before  which  the  frail  bark  was  driv- 
en helplessly  ;  the  despair  of  all  on  board  ;  the  heroic  attitude 
of  the  one  man,  who,  by  his  words,  inspired  all  the  others  with 
calmness  and  foi-tltude  and  hope.  He  told  how  they  were  at 
last  driven  ashoi-e,  and  not  a  life  was  lost,  but  all  were  saved, 
as  Paul  had  fon.'told.  Then  he  spoke  of  the  wonderful  acts 
of  Paul  in  Melita,  and  the  astonishment  of  all  who  witnessed 
them.     After  which  he  asked  Cineas,  — 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that?  and  all  this  I  have  seen  with 
my  own  eyes." 

"  It  is  amazing !  " 

"It  is  true,  for  I  saw  it.  It  is  he  power  of  that  God, 
Cineas,  whose  servant  Paul  is." 

Cineas  said  nothing. 

Julius  resumed  his  narrative  : 

"  We  spent  th(^  winter  on  the  island,  and  many  and  many 
a  scene  occurred  there,  wiiich  I  never  can  forget.  During 
this  time,  Paul  spoke  more  {)articularly  to  me  of  his  great 
doctrine,  for  which  he  had  toiled  .so  long,  and  suffered  so 
much.  Those  three  months  must  always  be  remembered  by 
me  ;  and  I  have  many  things  to  tell  you,  Cineas,  which  must 
be  reserved  for  another  time,  for  I  need  a  long  time  to  talk 
with  you,  over  such  important  things  as  these. 

"  But  I  will  bring  my  narrative  to  a  conclusion.  We  re- 
mained on  the  island  about  three  months,  and  then,  as  the 
winter  was  over,  we  embarked  in  the  "  Castor  and  Pollux," 


ill  ill  J 


The  Officer  xvho  sailed  with  Paul. 


75 


and  arrived,  after  a  time,  at  Puteoli.  Thence  we  came  to 
Rome. 

"  He  seemed  to  have  many  friends  here,  who  were  expect- 
ing liiin,  for  numbers  came  to  meet  him,  some  even  as  far  as 
Appii  Forum  and  the  Three  Taverns.  The  meeting  showed 
tliat  this  remarkable  man  had  inspired  among  them  tlie 
wannest  sentiments  of  devotion." 

"  Have  you  seen  him  since  ?  "  asked  Cineas. 

*'Yes,"  replied  Julius,  "frequently.  Indeed,  my  guar- 
dianship was  not  altogether  ended  till  a  few  days  ago,  when  I 
took  him  to  Burrhus.  He  was  well  received.  Burrhuf 
himself  respected  him,  and  allowed  him  to  live  by  himself, 
with  a  soldier  that  kept  him." 

"  I  heard  from  Burrhus  of  this  interview,"  said  Cineas. 

Julius  looked  surprised. 

"  I  was  in  Rome  a  few  days  since  and  saw  him.  He 
spoke  in  high  terms  of  this  man." 

"  He  is  a  marvellous  man.  His  ascendency  over  others  is 
wonderful.  I  heard  a  noble  speech  which  he  made  before 
Festus  and  King  Agrippa.  They  were  charmed  with  his 
noble  bearing  and  eloquence.  On  board  the  ship  he  exerted 
the  same  influence  over  all,  from  myself  down  to  the  mean- 
est sailor.  His  attitude  during  the  long  and  frightful  storm 
was  noble.  Never  for  an  instant  did  his  courage  falter, 
llis  calm  face  always  preserved  a  lofty  serenity ;  and  when 
hf.  spoke,  it  was  always  with  a  cheerful  smile.  In  the  dark- 
est hour,  when  despair  .filled  the  hearts  of  all,  he  stood  un- 
moved, as  though  he  was  in  perfect  safety.  For  my  part,  I 
think  I  have  as  much  courage  as  ordinary  men  ;  but  here 
was  a  man,  who,  while  we  were  mourning,  and  expecting 
every  moment  our  last  hour,  stood  among  us  with  such  im- 
quailing  steadfastness,  that  the  very  sight  of  him  inspired 


courage  mto  us. 


"  He  ought  to  be  a  Roman,"  said  Carbo.  "  He  is  a  man 
of  the  right  sort.  I  care  not  what  his  accusers  say  of  him, 
he  is  the  highest  type  of  man." 


7 


IHIlJIli! 


il 


76  The   Officer  who  sailed  with  Paul, 

"  Such  a  man,"  said  Julius,  "  as   answers  the  noble  de- 
scription of  Horace,  — 

"'  The  upright  man,  the  man  of  iron  will; 
Nor  civil  fury  urging  on  to  ill, 

Nor  raging  de.s|)ot8'  angry  frown, 

Can  cast  his  stcailCast  spirit  down ; 
Nor  tlie  fierce  wiml  tliat  rules  the  Adrian  sea, 
Nor  Jove,  when  all  his  lightnings  are  set  free, — 

Though  all  the  world  to  ruin  roll. 

He  vii-ws  the  wreck  with  fearless  soul.' 


11  I 


'  '  ■! 


'•  But  he  had  something  more  than  mere  courage,"  he 
added,  musingly  ;  "  he  had  that  spiritual  power  to  sustain 
him,  which  made  him  superior  to  other  men.  liy  that  su- 
pernatural influence,  he  was  enabled  to  foretell  our  deliver- 
ance, to  save  himself  from  the  most  venomous  of  reptiles, 
and  to  heal  the  sick  by  his  touch." 

"  He  is  a  wizard,"  said  Carbo.  "  He  draws  his  power 
from  some  unhallowed  source." 

"  Unhallowed  ?  His  whole  life  is  hallowed,  and  all  his 
thoughts  and  words.  For,  mark  you,  he  does  all  this  out  of 
kindness  and  pity ;  he  is  no  wizard,  seeking  for  gain.  He 
is  poor,  and  has  often  to  work  with  his  own  hands  for  his 
bread." 

"  If  he  has  this  supernatural  power,  would  he  need  to 
work  ?     Could  he  not  turn  stones  into  gold  ?  "  said  Carbo. 

"  He  does  not,  at  any  rate ;  and  yet  I  know  that  he  has 
this  power,  for  I  have  seen  it.  He  never  boasts,  —  never 
makes  displays.  But  when  the  poor  father  carries  to  him 
the  emaciated  form  of  his  child,  or  the  weeping  mother  im- 
plores him  to  come  and  save  hei'  dying  son,  then  his  face 
lights  up  with  an  expression  of  more  than  human  pity,  and 
he  goes,  in  his  kindness  and  tenderness,  to  pray  over  the 
sick  and  save  them.  He  says  it  is  all  done  by  the  Deity,  to 
whom  he  humbly  prays ;  that  he  is  only  a  weak  man,  and 
of  himself  can  do  nothing. 

"  One  of  his  companions  told  me  many  more  things  about 


"  I 


The  Officer  who  sailed  zu/th  Paul. 


11 


liim.  He  told  me  of  his  wonderful  traveLs  over  the  E.ist 
and  Greece,  —  how  he  was  sometimes  stoned  almost  to  death, 
and  at  other  times  worshipi)ed  as  a  god.  This  man,  who 
was  his  companion,  was  himself  an  extraordinary  person- 
age, with  much  of  the  calmness  and  deep-set  purpose  of 
Paul ;  hut  he  seemed  to  think  himself  as  nothing  in  compar- 
ison with  his  friend." 

"Oh,  this  supernatural  power  is  not  so  unintelligible!'' 
said  Carbo.     "  Didn't  Socrates  have  an  attendant  Rj)irit  ?  " 

*'  The  attendant  spirit  of  Socrates  was  very  different  fi-om 
this.  It  was  a  kind  of  inward  monitor,  which  forewai-ned 
him  of  danger;  it  was  not  an  active  power  like  this,  by 
which  he  could  heal  the  sick." 

Cineas  said  but  little.  The  wonderful  story  of  Julius 
sank  deep  into  his  mind.  Already  this  man  Paul  had  been 
prominent  in  his  thoughts.  Now  circumstances  had  thrown 
around  him  a  new  and  stronger  attraction. 

"Wliat  are  these  great  doctrines  that  you  allude  to 
with  so  much  emphasis  ?  "  asked  Carbo.  "  What  is  Paul  ? 
What  does  he  teach  ?  What  is  this  new  thing,  for  which 
he  suffers  so  much  and  is  ready  to  die  ?  " 

"I  cannot  unfold  them  fully  just  now,"  said  Julius.  "He 
is,  however,  a  Christian-"  — 

"A  Christian!"  cried  Carbo,  interrupting  him.  "What! 
only  a  Christian  ?  " 

His  face  assumed  an  expression  of  mingled  contempt  and 
disappointment. 

"  I  know  them,  -—  the  curse  of  Rome  and  the  oflfscouring 
of  the  earth.  These  are  the  men  and  the  doctrines  that  are 
ruining  the  empire." 

"IIow?"  asked  Julius,  mildly. 

"  Why,  they  practise  abominable  secret  vices." 

"  I  know  that  to  be  false,"  said  Julius ;  "  for  I  have  at- 
tended very  many  of  their  most  secret  meetings,  and  I 
aflirm  to  you  that  their  object  is  a  pure  and  holy  one." 

"  Well,  then,  they  are  at  least  cowards  ;  they  teach  that 
7« 


ii!    P 


li  i  I' 


\um\ 
Mm 


78 


/ 


T/ic  Officer  who  sailed  with  Paul. 


fighting  is  wrong,  that  cowardice  is  pleasing  to  their  God. 
Rome  is  effeminate  enougli  ah-eady ;  but  this  doctrine  is  the 
very  thing  that  can  extinguish  the  last  spark  of  manhood." 

"  My  father,"  said  JuHus,  calmly,  as  soon  as  Carbo  had 
ended,  "  was  this  man  whom  I  have  been  describing  a  cow- 
ard? He,  who  shamed  us  Roman  soldiers  by  his  heroism 
in  the  face  of  appalling  disaster,  a  coward?  Would  that 
there  were  more  of  them ! " 

"  No,"  said  Carbo,  frankly ;  "  he,  at  least,  is  no  coward. 
Faith  !  nothing  tries  a  man  more  than  shipwreck." 

"  And,  I  assure  you,  the  othei'S  are  like  him  in  this.  You 
have  heard  the  idle  tales  of  their  enemies ;  for,  of  all  men 
on  earth,  the  Christians  have  the  least  fear  of  death.  In 
Asia  many  have  had  to  suffer  and  die ;  and  they  always  go 
to  execution  not  merely  with  calmness,  but  even  with  joy." 

«Joy?" 

"Yes.  Such  is  their  religion  that  they  are  convinced 
that  they  will  be  happy  forever  in  heaven ;  and  so  they 
have  no  fear  of  death.     Can  such  men  be  cowards  ?  " 

Cavbo  was  silent. 

For  the  remainder  of  tlie  day,  Cineas  and  Julius  had 
much  to  say  to  one  another.  More  conversation  about  the 
Christians  followed ;  but  Cineas  had  much  to  communicate 
about  the  absence  of  Labeo  and  the  villany  of  Hegio. 
They  sei)arated  in  the  evening  with  mutual  promises  to 
visit  one  another. 

"And  I  will  take  jrou  to  see  this  wonderful  Jew  some 
day,"  said  Julius,  with  a  smile  that  did  not  altogether  con- 
ceal his  deep  earnestness  in  this  proposal. 


i-'l 


■Ii 

!  ! 


VII. 


THE  SYRIAN  LEARNS  A  LESSON. 

EN  weeks  luul  passed  away  since  the   nurse  was 
lirst  taken  sick,  and  she  now  began  to  recover  (lie 
use    of  her  faculties.     Isaac,  true  to    his  promise, 
was  unremitting  in  his  care  ;  and  his  skill  was  re- 
X^^^l   warded  by  success.     He  received  the  thanks  and 
Wf      praises  of  Helena  with  equanimity,  and  continued 
W       his  care  with  better  prospects  than  ever. 
When  the  nurse  began  to  be  conscious  again  of  surround- 
ing events,  she  n.'cognized  first  of  all  the  tender   care  of 
Helena.     No  words  seemed  sufficient  to  her  to  express  her 
gratitude.     She  poured  forth  all   the  waim  emotions  of  a 
generous  heart  to  her  mistress,  and  declared  that  nothing 
could  be  a  sufficient  return  for  so  much  kindness. 

At  times  her  thoughts  would  revert  to  that  mournful 
event  in  her  life  which  had  been  «o  bitterly  brought  before 
her  recollection  by  Cineas,  and  Helena  could  understand 
the  sadness  wliicli  her  face  wore ;  but  calmness  would  suc- 
ceed, as  other  things  came  to  her  mind,  and  the  usual  seren- 
ity reigned  upon  her  face,  which  distinguished  it  before. 
Helena  was  careful  to  make  no  allusion  to  this  great  sorrow, 
and  refrained  from  touching  upon  any  subject  which  might, 
by  any  possibility,  be  associated  with  it.  She  chose  rather 
to  talk  to  her  of  her  recovery,  and  of  tlui^time  when  she 
coidd  again  resume  her  care  of  Marcus. 

As  for  Marcus,  his  joy  was  unbounded  when  the  nurse 
recognized  him  again.     He  had  been  dee{)ly  grieved   that 

she  had  through  all  her  sickness  taken  no  notice  of  him, 

(79) 


8o 


The  Syrian  learns  a  Lesson. 


1 

id 


n'm''' 

mm 

I 


iP; 


and  had  fearod,  in  his  ciiildish  w.iy,  that  he  h:\(l  ilono 
something  to  oflend  her;  but  now,  returning  reason  and 
liealth  brought  back  all  her  former  affection,  and  he  saw 
that  she  was  unchanged. 

"  You  are  my  own  dear  nurse  again,"  ho  said,  as  he  em- 
braced her  fondly  and  kissed  her  pale  face.  "  And  now 
you  will  soon  walk  with  me  hand  in  hand,  as  yon  u.«ed  to 
do,  under  the  plane-trees,  and  tell  me  about  the  dear  God 
and  Savioui'  and  all  those  wonderful  stories.  And  oh, 
dearest  nurse,  I  have  forgotten  none  of  them ;  but  I  have 
thought  of  them  every  night  till  I  fell  asleep,  and  then  I 
used  to  dream  of  them  till  morning." 

The  nurse  fondly  stroked  the  boy's  head  with  her  thin 
hand,  and  tears  came  to  her  eyes. 

"  Yes,  my  sweet  child ;  I  ha\e  many  and  many  stories  to 
tell,  and,  if  it  be  God'o  will,  we  will  again  walk  under  the 
plane-trees." 

"  And  I  will  be  a  listener,"  said  Helena,  gently. 

The  nurse  looked  up  inquiringly,  with  a  strange  and 
eager  curiosity  in  her  eyes. 

"I  have  heard  so  much  of  your  stories  from  Marcus," 
said  Helena,  kindly,  "  that  I  want  to  know  more.  Do  you 
know  what  it  is  to  have  within  you  a  longing  and  craving 
after  some  better  source  of  comfort  than  this  life  affords  ? 
You  do,  you  do !     You  can  sympathize  with  me." 

"With  you,  most  beloved  mistress?"  exclaimed  the 
nurse,  her  face  now  radiant  with  hope  ;  "  I  would  lay  down 
my  life  for  you.  If  I  but  dared  to  tell  you  what  I  know ; 
if  YOU  would  but  listen,"  — 

She  paused. 

"  My  soul,"  said  Helena,  in  low,  earnest  tones,  "  my  soul 
longs  for  rest.  There  is  One  who  alone  can  give  it  this. 
You  have  found  him.  He  is  the  one  wdiose  name  you  have 
murmured  in  your  delirium,  to  whom  you  pray,  on  whom 
you  rely.  If  I  could  but  know  what  you  know,  and  feel 
as  you  feel,  then  I  could  have  peace.     You  must  teach  me 


The  Syrian  hams  a  Lesson. 


8z 


this.  You  niiust  tjilk  to  me  us  you  luive  liilkcil  to  Marcus. 
You  inu>t  1ft  uie  know  your  secret  eousohiiiou." 

Tlie  iiur:*e  trembled  with  emotion,  tiud,  folding  her 
euuiciiUed  hands,  afae  closed  her  eyes,  and  her  lips  mur- 
mured words  of  prayer. 

'' '  IJless  the  Lord,  O  my  soul ! ' "  she  said  at  last,  in  tones 
that  thrilled  through  Helena.  "*  Bless  ihe  Lord,  O  my  soul 
and  all  that  is  within  me  bless  his  holy  name.'  He  has 
heard  my  prayers.  He  has  awakened  these  dear  hearts  so 
that  ihey  long  for  him. 

"'My  soul  dolh  magnify  the  Lord,  and  my  spirit  doth 
exult  in  God  my  Saviour.'  " 

Helena  gently  checked  her. 

"Not  now,  not  now,"  she  said.  "You  are  too  weak. 
The  slightest  emotion  disturbs  you  and  makes  you  weaker." 

"  0  my  dearest  mistress,"  said  the  nurse,  "  this  does  not 
weaken  me  ;  it  gives  me  strength." 

"No.  See  how  you  tremble.  Your  poor  heart  beats  as 
tliougl;  it  would  burst." 

"But  if  I  talk  to  you  on  this,  it  will  make  me  calm. 
The  very  thought  is  comfort  and  peace." 

"  It  is,  it  is  ;  but  you  must  keep  that  thought  to  yourself 
till  you  grow  stronger." 

"  Oh,  I  long  to  talk  to  you  about  it  now  !  "  and  the  nurse, 
in  her  eagerness,  tried  to  raise  herself  on  her  elbow.  But 
she  was  too  weak,  and  in  a  moment  sank  back  again  pant- 


nig. 


"  There,"  said  Helena,  kindly,  "  you  see  how  weak  you 
are.  I  am  sorry  I  spoke  of  this  nov/.  When  you  arc 
stronger  I  shall  rejoice  to  hear  you ;  but  now  I  must  refuse 
to  listen.  Think  how  angry  Isaac  would  be  if,  after  all  his 
care  and  skill,  I  should  suifer  you  by  my  impatience  to  have 
a  relapse.     No,  no.     We  must  both  wait." 

"I  will  obey,  then,"  said  the  nurse,  faintly.  "  Y'ou  know 
better  than  I  do,  and  I  will  do  whatever  you  say.  But  oh, 
what  new   :omfort  you  have  given  me !     If  anything  could 


82 


The  Syrian  learns  a  Lesson. 


v.\ 


mako  rno  recover  rapidly,  it  would  be  this.  It  has  driven 
awny  all  my  sorrow  ah'cady." 

The  nurse  fondly  hoped  that  in  a  few  days  she  would 
pain  the  strong  desire  of  her  heart,  and  be  able  to  talk  to 
her  mistress  on  the  great  subject  to  which  she  had  invited 
her ;  but  she  had  mistaken  her  strength.  Her  aged  frame 
had  not  that  vitality  by  which  one  rallies  rapidly  from  a 
severe  shock ;  and,  as  day  succeeded  to  day,  even  when 
imj)rovement  was  going  on,  change  for  the  better  was  not 
very  perceptible. 

"  Mother  dearest,"  Marcus  would  say,  "  how  strange  it  is 
that  my  dear  nurse  should  have  to  suffer  so  long !  At  fust 
I  thought  that  she  was  going  to  leave  us,  and  enter  that 
bright  world  where  the  angels  and  the  holy  children  dwell ; 
but  she  has  not  gone,  and  now,  why  does  she  not  get 
well  ?  " 

Helena  explained  how,  in  such  an  old  person,  it  took  a 
long  time  to  recover. 

"I  pray  to  God  for  her,  —  to  my  God  and  Saviour, — 
and  that  is  the  reason,  I  suj)pose,  why  she  is  getting  better ; 
and  she  wouldn't  have  got  well  at  all  if  I  hadn't  prayed, 
—  would  she,  mother  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  my  darling,"  said  Helena,  not  knowing 
what  to  say. 

"  But  I  find  it  hard  to  pray  without  her ;  that  is,  I  did  at 
first." 

"How?" 

*'  Oh,  I  don't  know ;  but  it  used  to  seem  when  she  was 
with  me  as  if  all  the  room  was  full  of  angels,  and  sometimes 
as  if  my  Saviour  was  standing  near  me,  smiling  at  me  just 
as  nurse  used  to  smile.  And  when  she  was  sick,  the  room 
was  all  empty.  But  after  a  time  the  angels  began  to  come 
again  ;  and  now,  when  I  pray,  I  think  God  hears." 

And  so  Marcus  used  to  prattle  to  his  mother,  while  a 
deeper  longing  than  ever  took  possession  of  Helena's  heart 


The  Syrian  learns  a  Lesson. 


83 


lile  a 
heart 


tliat  she,  too,  might  take  part  in  8uch  pure  and  holy  com- 
niiiiiion,  and  be  to  her  son  wlint  the  nurso  had  been. 

Dm-inj;  all  this  time,  the  attention  of  Cinois  was  almost 
alt(»,i,'<-ther  ('n;^rosst'(l  with  the  invest i;jat ions  of  Isaae,  and  the 
various  jdans  whieh  {)resented  themselves  for  eonnterplotting 
a<^ainst  Ilegio.  After  ihe  outbreak  with  Carbo,  Cineas  took 
no  notice  of  him  whatever  for  a  few  <lays ;  but  at  length  ho 
summoned  him  before  him.  The  Syrian  made  his  appear- 
ance, his  dark  face  more  gloomy  than  ever.  He  performed 
the  salutation  in  so  disdainful  a  manner,  that  Cineas  felt 
compeUed  to  notice  it. 

"  Fellow,"  said  he,  "when  you  come  before  your  masters, 
you  should  demean  yourself  as  becomes  an  inferior." 

Ilegio  said  nothing,  and  Cineas  wont  on, — 

"After  your  insolence  to  my  friend  Carbo,  it  would  be  no 
more  than  right  to  have  you  chastised  and  dismissed ;  but  I 
do  not  wish  to  act  unjustly,  and  so  I  have  waited  till  my 
passion  (jooled,  so  as  to  deal  with  you  properly." 

"  Tou  have  nothing  to  do  with  me,"  said  Hegio,  rudely. 
"You  never  employed  me." 

"  After  what  has  passed,  it  would  be  but  just  if  I  dismissed 
you  on  the  spot,"  said  Cineas,  calmly.  "  As  to  my  rights  and 
power  here,  I  thiidc  you  are  mistaken.  I  am  the  guardian 
of  Marcus,  and  the  controller  of  this  estate." 

"  You  ?  "  cried  Ilegio,  in  amazement. 

"To  such  an  impudent  knave  as  you,  I  don't  know  what 
concessions  are  to  be  made.  You  evidently  don't  know  who 
and  what  I  am.  Y''ou  don't  apjx'ar  to  know  that  I  could 
crush  you  and  your  miserable  life  in  a  moment." 

"  No,"  said  Ilegio,  coldly  ;  "  I  do  not  know  that." 

''In  order  to  satisfy  your  mind  fully,  and  free  you  from 
anxiety  about  the  justness  of  my  right,  I  will  show  you  this 
(li)('Uinent,  which  your  master  has  signed.  \o\x  will  perceive 
tliat,  und(!r  certain  circumstances,  he  api)ointf5  me  the  guar- 
dian of  his  son,  and  absolute  controller  of  all  his  propertju 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


Ui  12.8 


2.5 
2.2 

120 

m 

U    i  1.6 


/ 


vg 


i:<? 


^ 


*j^ 


(!( 


84 


The  Syrian  learns  a  Lesson. 


The  circumstances  have  occurred,  and  I  have  formally  as- 
sumed my  new  duti  is.     I  am  master  here. 

"  Perhaps  you  think  that  1  will  revenge  myself  on  you 
for  your  insolence.  Not  at  all.  You  are  altogether  beneath 
my  notice.  You  liave  risen  from  the  lowest  dregs  of  the 
populace  to  this  position.  I  will  be  satisfied  with  thrusting 
you  out  of  it. 

"Perhaps  your  jealousy  for  the  interests  of  this  family 
may  lead  you  to  wonder  how  I  am  placed  here  with  such 
powers.  For  I  can  sell  all  this  to-morrow  if  I  wish.  I 
will  condescend  to  relieve  you  of  this  anxiety.  Marcus  is 
net  only  heir  to  this  estate,  but  to  mine  also.  Tliis  is  as 
nothing  compared  with  what  I  will  leave  him.  lie  will,  at 
my  death,  be  master  of  more  than  twenty  different  estates 
in  Achaia ;  each  of  which  would  afford  enough  revenue  to 
make  the  fortune  of  such  as  you.  You  see,  then,  that  the 
heir  and  the  estate  of  Labeo  are  safe  in  my  hands.  He 
leaves  his  son  this  estate  and  fifty  slaves :  I  will  leave  him 
more  than  twenty  estates  and  ten  thousand  slaves. 

"  You  are  a  cunning  scoundrel,  but  you  have  not  man- 
aged well.  It  was  your  duty,  as  a  scheming  knave,  to  find 
out  all  about  me.  You  would  then  have  tried  to  get  my 
good  opinion.  You  made  a  great  mistake  when  you  dared 
to  treat  with  insolence  the  owner  of  millions.  I  could  have 
done  better  for  you  than  even  Tigellinus ;  for  if  you  had 
tried,  you  might  have  cheated  me  with  impunity.  You 
can't  cheat  him. 

"  See,  too,  what  a  double  fool  you  have  been.  You  think 
you  are  the  favorite  and  minion  of  Tigellinus.  You  know 
that  your  j)atron,  to  oblige  a  man  of  my  wealtii,  would  have 
you  crucified  to-morrow.  Don't  you  know,  or  have  you 
forgotten,  what  wealth  can  do  in  Rome  ?  Don't  you  know 
that  this  new  patron  of  yours  would  sacrifice  a  thousand 
such  as  you,  if  by  doing  so  he  could  get  into  the  good  graces 
^  the  master  of  millions,  and  hope  for  even  a  share  of  his 
wiil?" 


The  Syrian  learns  a  Lesson. 


85 


The  Syrian  had  listened  to  Cineas  with  deep  and  v:  ried 
feelings.  From  the  first,  he  had  looked  upon  him  as  a 
Greek  of  noble  birth  perhaps,  but  like  most  Greeks,  of  lim- 
ited means.  So  many  Greek  adventurers  filled  Rome,  that 
the  very  name  had  become  synonymous  with  pressing  want 
and  clever  knavery.  He  thought  that  Cineas  had  come 
with  an  eye  to  this  estate. 

To  his  amazement  and  utter  confusion,  he  saw  what  a  fool 
he  had  been.  At  first,  he  did  not  believe  his  assertion,  but 
regarded  it  all  as  a  vain  boast.  But  when  Cineas  threw  out 
at  him  the  name  of  Tigellinus,  —  a  name  already  dreaded 
by  all,  —  when  he  mentioned  it  so  slightingly,  with  such  an 
air  of  calm  superiority,  then  he  felt  thr.t  Cineas  must  have 
all  the  wealth  and  power  which  he  claimed.  Then  he  saw 
the  extent  of  his  folly.  Cineas  had  mentioned  the  very 
thing  which  most  of  all  overpowered  his  mind.  Wealth  was 
his  god.  The  powerful  controller  of  million^^  was  to  him 
almost  superhuman.  His  whole  manner  changed.  His  face 
assumed  an  expression  of  the  deepest  and  most  abject  hu- 
mility.    Even  Cineas  was  amazed  at  the  change. 

"  Noble  Cineas,"  said  he,  bowing  down  low  before  him, 
"I  have  severely  ofiended  you.  If  I  can  hope  for  pardon 
from  you,  I  most  earnestly  implore  it.     Hear  me,  — 

"My  whole  otFence  was  what  you  call  my  insolence  to 
your  friend.  Alas !  I  knew  not  that  he  was  your  friend. 
He  came,  —  and  you  will  forgive  me  if  I  say  that  h.;  was  a 
man  of  no  very  majestic  or  lordly  air,  such  as  your  friend 
might  be,  —  he  came,  and  fiercely  ordered  me  about,  as 
though  I  were  his  slave.  ISty  ([uick  temper  rose.  He  beat 
me,  and  this  maddened  me.  I  even  forgot  myself  in  your 
presence,  and  most  humbly  do  I  beg  forgiveness  for  the 
momentary  slight.  I  had  been  severely  beaten,  and  was 
mad  with  rage. 

"  Alas !  I  have  no  power  with  Tigeliir.i^c,  and  know  not 
what  you  mean.     I  know  well  that  a  man  like  you  can  do 
what   you    please  with   a    poor   man  like  me.    Spare  me  I 
8 


86 


The  Syrian  learns  a  Lesson. 


My  life  is  in  your  hands.  On  my  knees,  I  ask  that  life  of 
you." 

And  Hegio,  in  his  abject  submission,  actually  fell  down 
and  clasped  the  knees  of  Cineas. 

His  touch  affected  Cineas  like  that  of  a  reptile. 

"  Rise,"  said  he,  coldly ;  "  I  don't  want  your  life.  I'm 
glad  that  you  understand  me  so  well  as  to  know  that  I  could 
easily  destroy  it  if  I  wished.     But  I  don't  wish  it." 

Hegio  rose  and  overwhelmed  him  with  his  thanks. 

"  Hear  me,"  said  Cineas,  "  and  then  go.  As  I  am  enter- 
ing upon  the  care  of  this  estate,  I  wish  to  know  how  its  af- 
fairs have  been  since  Labeo  left.  Make  u})  full  accounts  of 
everything.  Present  them  to  me.  Beware  how  you  falsify 
anything.  For  I  declare  to  you  that  if  I  suspect  a  single 
statement,  I  will  have  everything  examined ;  and  woe  be  to 
you  if  ever  it  comes  to  that !     Now  go ! " 

Hegio  attempted  to  speak. 

"  Give  me  time  "  — 

"  Time  ?  Oh,  I  will  not  hurry  you.  Take  a  month  or 
two.  Only  remember  what  I  have  said,  and  beware !  Now 
go!" 

Ana  Hegio,  bowing  low,  left  the  room  with  a  face  of 
agony. 


VIII. 


"  THE  MASTER." 

MONG  the  many  estates  adjoining  that  of  Laheo 
was  one  beh^nging  to  Aulus  Phiufms,  a  man  of  high 
rank,  who  had  made  the  first  conquests  in  Britain 
under  the  Emperor  Claudius.  He  had  been  gov- 
ernor there ;  and  his  conquests  were  extendcjd  by 
others  until  the  revolt.  He  had  seen  hard  service, 
and  knew  the  Britons  thoroughly.  Helena  had 
become  acquainted  with  his  wife  on  her  first  arrival  here ; 
but  sorrow  and  sickness  kept  her  much  at  home,  so  that 
there  had  not  been  much  intercourse  between  them. 

Her  name  was  Pomponia  Graicina.  She  was  a  lady  of 
noble  lineage  and  nobler  character.  While  the  nurse  was 
slowly  recovering,  Helena  was  one  day  surprised  and  pleased 
to  see  Pom[)onia  coming  on  a  visit.  Apart  from  the  pleas- 
ure which  she  felt  at  seeing  her,  she  had  also  a  faint  ho[)e 
that  some  news  might  have  been  received  from  Britain. 
After  the  customary  salutations,  and  some  conversation  of  a 
general  nature,  Pomponia  remarked,  — 

"  I  need  not  ask  you  if  you  feel  anxious  about  your  hus- 
band. I  know  well  what  it  is  to  have  such  distress,  for  my 
husband  fought  against  them,  as  you  know  ;  but  at  the  same 
time,  dear  friend,  I   think  there  is  every  reason  for  hope." 

She  then  went  on  to  tell  Helena  much  that  was  in  the 
highest  degree  comforting.  She  jiointed  out  the  peculiari- 
ties of  the  Britons,  their  sudden  attacks,  their  jealousies,  and 
private  feuds,  their  tendency  to  fall  away  from  any  common 
cause  after  a  short  period.     She  afHrmed  that  her  own  lius- 

(87) 


88 


The  Master. 


biind  tliou<rlit  tliere  was  not  tlic  sliglitest  cause  of  fear  for 
(lie  army  of  Sueloiiiiis ;  but  that  with  any  kuul  of  general- 
ship at  all  it  would  iniivitably  overthrow  the  Britonri  and 
take  vengeance  upon  them. 

These  words  from  such  a  source  had  much  more  effect 
tlian  anything  that  had  been  said  to  Helena.  They  reas- 
sured her.  Aulus  c<#'tainly  knew,  if  any  one  could,  and  his 
opinion  was  now  worth  much  to  her. 

Poniponia  was  pleased  to  see  the  visible  effect  of  her 
words  in  the  heightened  animation  which  at  once  appeared 
in  Helena. 

"  Dear  friend."  said  she,  "  tlie  period  when  my  husband 
was  absent  was  the  most  remarkable  in  my  life.  Never 
shall  I  forget  it.  During  his  wars  communication  was 
sometimes  interrupted  and  I  was  harassed  by  teii'ible  anxi- 
ety.    I  did  not  know  what  to  do  or  where' to  go." 

"  And  how  did  it  end  ?  what  happened  ? "  asked 
Helena,  as  Pomponia  paused. 

"  I  used  to  offer  up  vows  incessantly  for  my  husband's 
safe  return.  Bui;  the  gods  of  our  religion  always  ap[)('ared 
in  a  fearful  light  to  me.  I  did  not  believe  the  ordinary  le- 
gends about  them ;  but  I  had  no  other  knowledge  of  them 
than  this.  \  acted  from  a  kind  of  superstition,  and  felt  all 
the  time  that  it  was  superstition  only.  My  vows  were  made 
to  a  set  of  immoral  demons,  or  else  they  were  made  to 
chance,  or  notliing  at  all.  This  was  that  which  troubled 
me.  But  perhaps  I  am  wearying  you  while  thus  talking 
about  myself." 

"  "Wearying  me  ?  Oh,  no,"  cried  Helena  ;  "  I  long  to  hear 
it  all.  What  mercy  has  sent  you  to  me  ?  I  have  felt  all 
these  doubts,  though  of  a  somewhat  different  nature,  and 
even  now  am  longing  for  something  better  than  the  com- 
mon religion,  or  the  Greek  philosophy." 

"  Dear  friend,"  said  Pomponia,  with  deep  emotion,  "  per- 
haps you  may  be  benefited  by  my  story.  I  knew  nothing 
of  philosophy.     I  was  but  a  sim[)le  woman,  with  no  more 


The  Master. 


89 


tlian  tiie  common  trainin<:^  —  but  I  will  go  on.  My  maid 
used  often  to  notice  my  distress,  and  at  length  perceived  the 
cause  of  it,  and  all  my  wi.'^hes  and  desires. 

"  This  maid  was  a  Cyrenean,  and  had  been  with  me  for 
some  time.  Her  religion  was  altogether  different  from 
mine.  I  never  thought  much  about  it,  for  every  race  has  its 
own  superstitions ;  and  I  fancied  that  hers  were  like  all  the 
rest. 

"  But  I  soon  had  reason  to  see  differently.  Gradually, 
and  with  the  deepest  respect,  she  began  to  speak  about  her 
religion.  My  attention  was  aroused  and  my  interest  excited. 
There  was  something  in  it  that  deeply  impressed  me.  She 
spoke  of  one  Supreme  Being  —  the  True  God,  who  rules  all 
and  regards  all  things.  She  told  how  this  one  created  men, 
but  they  sinned  against  him.  She  told  how  he  pitied  them 
even  after  they  had  sinned  and  formed  plans  for  their  safe- 
ty. She  went  on  to  tell  me  of  many  messengers  whom  God 
had  sent  to  the  world,  —  men  of  whom  we  in  Greece  and 
Rome  have  never  heard,  but  who  yet  gave  his  messages  to 
men  in  writings  which  yet  exi^^t.  Above  all,  they  told  how 
One  was  coming  who  would  make  all  things  plain,  and  show 
to  the  world  a  new  religion  and  a  new  hope. 

"  She  had  a  scroll  of  many  of  these  wonderful  messages 
from  which  she  read  words  so  full  of  love  and  mercy,  so 
amazing  in  their  meaning,  and  filled  with  such  sublime  ideas 
that  I  felt  in  my  very  heart  that  they  must  come  from  heav- 
en. Love  and  mercy  from  the  great  Deity  !  This  was  the 
thought  that  came  into  my  mind  to  remain  there  forever. 
Then  my  maid  read  to  me  the  strange  announcements  and 
])rophecie3  of  One  who  was  coming.  At  last  she  read  me  a 
book  which  told  that  he  had  come." 

"  That  he  has  come ! "  cried  Helena,  clasping  her  hands, 
and  turning  to  Pomponia  more  closely,  with  streaming  eyes. 
"  Oh,  how  your  words  sink  into  my  soul.  Who  is  he,  and 
when  did  he  come  ?  " 

"  That  book  which  my  maid  read  to  me  told  a  wonderful 
8* 


90 


The  Master. 


story  of  One  who  became  man  for  our  sakes,  and  lived  in 
the  world  for  years,  and  was  finally  put  to  death." 

"  Put  to  death  !  " 

Helena  repeated  the  words  with  an  awful  look. 

"  Ah  !  dear  friend,  you  have  yet  to  learn  the  most  won- 
derful story  that  ever  was  told  —  how  he  came  and  was 
born  on  earth ;  how  he  lived  and  taught ;  what  loving-  words 
he  said  ;  what  gentleness  and  inlinite  pity  dwelt  in  all  liis 
words  and  acts ;  what  immortal  love  sustained  him 
through  all  that  life  of  his.  You  have  yet  to  learn  "  —  and 
Pomponia's  voice  sank  to  a  lower  and  more  solemn  tone  — 
"  how  he  was  betrayed,  and  tried  for  his  life,  and  beaten, 
and  scourged,  and  reviled  ;  and  after  suffering  all  possible 
indignities,  how  he  was  crucified." 

These  words  thrilled  through  Helena.  They  were  new 
to  her.  She  had  heard  of  the  Christians,  and  had  known 
that  they  worshi[)[)ed  One  who  had  been  crucified  ;  but  never 
had  thought  of  the  full  meaning  of  that  fact.  She  had  be- 
lieved  them  to  be  an  obscure  and  ignorant  sect ;  and  until 
she  knew  that  the  nurse  was  one  of  them,  she  thought  them 
immoral.  But  now  their  belief  was  presented  by  one  whom 
she  revered,  in  a  way  that  filled  her  with  mingled  wonder 
and  horror.  Was  this  crucified  One  the  One  to  whom  she 
was  seeking  access  ?  Was  this  the  One  whom  she  had 
sought  so  long  ? 

"  I  will  not  tell  this  story  in  my  weak  words,"  said  Pom- 
ponia  ;  "  but  let  me  give  you  that  [)recious  book,  where  all 
is  told.  I  will  bring  it  to  you.  You  can  read  it  then.  It 
is  for  you.  All  that  I  found  in  it,  when  my  maid  gave  it  to 
me,  you  can  find  in  it,  —  peace,  hope,  and  blessings  beyond 
all  thought." 

"  Oh,  bring  me  that  book,  if  you  have  such  a  book,"  said 
llehnia.  "  It  is  now  the  one  idea  and  hope  of  my  life  to 
know  something  of  Him." 

"  Ah,  dearest,  in  that  book  He  says,  '  Learn  of  me,  and 


The  Master. 


91 


ye  shall  find  rest  for  your  souls.'     There  I  found  rest  for 
mine,  and  have  known  it  ever  since." 

"  And  was  this  the  trouble  that  you  fell  into  afterwards, 
when  your  husband  nnide  that  examination?"  asked  Hel- 
ena, alluding  to  an  event  well  known  in  Rome. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  other.  "  When  he  returned,  I  j:oon 
told  him  alL  He  questioned  me  somewhat  about  my  bi  lief, 
but  did  not  take  much  interest  in  it.  He  seemed  to  respeet 
the  elevated  and  noble  precepts  of  this  religion.  But  some 
of  his  friends  and  some  members  of  the  family  took  offence 
because  I  would  no  longer  take  part  in  the  usual  services 
of  the  state  religion,  and  endeavored  to  excite  ill-will  against 
me.  They  circulated  gross  slanders  about  me,  and  caused 
me  great  grief.  My  husband  found  this  out,  and  determined 
to  put  an  end  to  it.  He  summoned  a  number  of  relatives, 
and  tried  me  in  their  presence.  I  gave  a  full  account  of  my 
religion  and  its  precepts.  My  husband  gave  me  a  trium- 
phant acquittal,  and  since  then  I  have  been  molested  no  more 
in  that  way.  I  have  my  share  of  afflictions,  and  expect 
more.  Yet  I  put  my  trust  in  Him  who  has  Himself  sutlered 
so  deeply,  and  in  Him  I  have  found  rest  for  my  soul." 

There  was  a  deep  silence  for  a  few  minutes,  when  fuvlher 
conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Cineas. 
He  greeted  Pomponia  with  deep  respect,  and  said,  — 

"  I  hope  you  have  succeeded  in  driving  away  some  of  the 
anxiety  of  my  sister.  You  have  had  the  same  fears  in 
former  years,  and  have  found  that  they  were  groundless." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Helena ;  "  since  she  has  come,  I  feel  as 
though  part,  at  least,  of  the  heavy  load  of  anxiety  had  been 
lifted  from  my  mind." 

"As  I  was  coming  in,  I  heard  you  speak  about  'rest  for 
your  soul.'  Do  not  let  me  interrupt  such  a  conversation. 
Or,  if  it  is  private,  let  me  retire." 

But  they  refused  to  let  him  go,  and  insisted  that  he  should 
stay. 

"  Be  it  so,  then,"  said  Cineas ;  "  and  if  I  stay,  I  will  take 


w 


92 


T/ic  3fastcr. 


my  part  in  the  same  conversation.     Have  T  ever  told  you, 
dear  sister,  the  concluding  events  in  the  life  of  the  'mas- 
ter?'" 
"  No." 

"  Well,  then,  if  you  would  like  to  hear  it,  I  will  tell  it  now. 
It  also  explains,  to  some  extent,  the  cause  of  my  own  jour- 
ney to  Rome,  and  will  let  you  into  one  great  purpose  of  my 
life.  So  I  will  make  a  full  confession,"  said  he,  smilingly ; 
"and  I  will  make  no  apology,  for  I  know  lliat  anything 
about  •  the  master '  will  not  be  tiresome,  at  least,  to  you,  my 
sister." 

So  sajnng,  he  began,  — 

"  You  well  know,  dear  sister,  how  pure  and  elevated  were 
the  doctrines  of  our  sublime  teacher.  But  you,  noble  Pom- 
ponia,  may  not  know  this,  and  so  I  will  explain  them. 

"  At  the  outset  of  his  career,  he  had  deciiled  that  all  the 
best  doctrines  extant  were  comprised  within  the  writings  of 
Plato,  and  the  best  example  for  man  could  be  found  in  the 
life  and  character  of  Socrates.  These  writings  were  his 
study,  and  this  life  his  model.  In  that  life  he  saw  four  great 
principles,  which  he  always  sought  to  obey  in  his  own  life, 
and  to  urge  upon  his  disciples.     These  were, — 

"1st.  Self-denial. 

"  2d.  Doinjj  <i<^od  to  all. 

"  3d.  Constant  care  of  the  soul. 

"  4th.  Loyalty  to  God. 

"  If  you  have  read  of  Socrates,  you  will  see  that,  in  all  his 
words,  and  particularly  in  his  '  Apology,'  he  lays  chief  stress 
on  these.  He  used  to  urge  us  to  self-denial  by  quoting  the 
precepts  of  Socrates  about  temperance,  chastity,  and  frugal- 
ity. He  used  to  stimulate  us  to  a  life  of  philanthropy  by 
reminding  us  how  Socrates  went  about  doing  good,  —  for 
thirty  years  employing  himself  in  the  effort  to  benefit  all 
kinds  and  classes  of  men ;  neglecting  his  private  interests 
and  giving  himself  up  altogether  to  others.  The  care  of  the 
soul  was  recommended  as  the  one  great  purjjose  of  life,  by 


lie 


The  Master. 


To 


which  alone  wc  could  prepare  for  the  spiritual  life  which 
follows  this  mortal  one.  'The  soul,  the  soul,'  he  used  to 
say,  '  how  it  shall  become  most  perfect  —  this  is  the  only  aim 
worthy  of  an  immortal  being.'  Ah  !  how  our  hearts  used 
to  thrill,  as  he  discoursed  on  the  nature  of  God,  and  showed 
that  the  soul  was  like  him  in  its  nature,  and  ought  to  be  like 
him  in  feeling  and  character !  How  our  hearts  used  to  thrill 
as  he  pointed  out  the  best  example  of  the  soul  prepared  to 
meet  its  God,  by  describing  the  last  hours  of  Socrates  and 
his  last  discourse,  when  he  held  h'"  disciples  enchained  by 
his  divine  words  all  through  that  day,  and  then,  with  hope 
and  joy  and  enthusiasm,  drank  the  poison  and  lay  down  — 
to  do  what  ?  —  to  die  ?  No  ;  but  to  meet  his  God !  Then  he 
used  to  turn  from  this  triumphant  scene  to  his  memorable 
trial,  and  declare  that  the  sublimest  period  in  his  life  was 
not  that  glorious  death,  but  rather  those  concluding  words 
of  his  '  Apology,'  in  which  he  forgives  his  enemies.  Here, 
he  said,  was  the  highest  point  ever  attained  by  the  soul  of 
man  in  its  effort  to  become  like  its  Maker. 

"  Above  all, '  the  master '  used  to  insist  on  loyalty  to  God, 
— absolute  submission  to  his  will.  The  lofty  language  of  Soc- 
rates shows  what  ought  to  be  the  attitude  of  every  soul.  He 
told  his  judges  that  God  placed  him  in  Athens  to  preach  to 
every  man  to  take  care  of  his  soul,  and  he  would  die  rather 
than  quit  his  post.  He  affirmed  that  he  would  obey  God 
rather  than  man  ;  and  would  refuse  acquittal  if  it  were 
granted  on  condition  that  he  should  be  faithless  to  Him.  It 
was  this, '  the  master  *  affirmed,  which  was  the  highest  tri- 
umph of  this  principle,  that  a  man  should  thus  identify 
himself  with  God,  and  think  and  feel  and  act  as  if  always 
.united  with  him. 

"It  was  in  this  way  that  'the  master'  understood  'the 
divine  voice '  of  Socrates.  He  thought  that  God  had  mani- 
fested himself  to  his  follower ;  and  so  it  became  the  highest 
purpose  of  his  own  life  to  attain  to  something  like  that  divine 
presence  in  which  it  was  the  lot  of  Socrates  to  live.     This 


94 


The  Master, 


% 


was  the  purpose  of  lila  life,  and  he  sought  to  inspire  all  his 
disciples  with  his  own  spirit.  It  was  for  this  end,  that  he  took 
for  his  prayer  that  marvellous  choral  song  of  Sophocles, — 

"  '  Oh  that  it  were  my  lot 
To  attain  to  i)LTloct  liolincss  in  every  word  and  deed; 
For  which  tlicrc,  are  laid  down  lawH  suhlinie, 
Whicii  have  their  orif,'in  in  highest  heaven; 
Of  which  God  is  the  father  only, 
Whieli  (itrisiiahle  human  nature  has  not  produced, 
Nor  can  oblivion  ever  lull  llieni  to  sleej);  — 
Great  is  the  Divinity  within  them, 
Nor  ever  waxeth  old ! ' 

"  In  the  words  of  the  same  song,  he  maintained  that  self- 
love  and  the  pride  of  our  nature  was  the  greatest  obstacle  to 
this  fulfilment  of  God's  law,  which  is  written  in  our  hearts ; 
and  selected  the  words  at  the  close  of  the  antistrophe  as  the 
best  summing  up  of  all,  — 

"  '  Never  will  I  cease  to  take  my  God  as  my  guardian.' 

"  But  about  ten  years  ago  a  remarkable  circumstance  oc- 
curred, which  rrave  a  death-blow  to  his  hopes,  and  filled  his 
mind  with  gloom.     It  was  the  ease  of  Philo." 

Here  Cineas  repeated  to  Pomponia,  the  story  which  he 
had  alreatly  told  to  his  sister ;  the  narrative  of  which  excited 
the  strongest  feelings  of  that  lady,  especially  when  she  heard 
of  the  nurse,  and  her  sickness  ever  since.  "  She  is  one  of 
you."  whispered  Helena, —  "a  Christian;  she  has  found 
peace  —  she  trusts  in  your  God  —  she  has  promised  that  I 
should  learn  of  him."  Pomponia  pressed  her  hand,  and 
looked  unutterable  things ;  while  Cineas,  too  much  absorbed 
in  his  own  thoughts  to  notice  this  conversation,  went  on  with 
his  story. 

"  Here,  then,  was  a  case  which  showed  that  all  his  philoso- 
phy was  useless.  It  became  a  problem  which  disturbed  his 
life,  and  darkened  his  soul.  It  was  the  dark  spectacle  of  the 
foulest  sin,  followed  by  the  gnawings  of  insatiable  remorse. 
It  is  a  wonder  that  this  never  occurred  to  him  before.     Per- 


The  Master. 


95 


haps  it  dill ;  but  then  it  was  only  theory,  and  it  was  this  one 
fearful  fact  on  which  his  i»hiloso|)hy  was  wrecked. 

"  How  can  God  pardon  sin  ?  This  was  his  question. 
He  had  fondly  ho))ed  that  Plato  was  sulRcient  for  every 
case.  He  thought  before  that  to  turn  away  from  sin,  —  to 
reform,  —  wa:  enough.  He  now  learned  that  there  is  the 
distress  of  the  soul,  which  no  reform  of  life  can  of  itself 
destroy.  He  had  to  acknowledge  that  here  Plato  failed. 
He  had  nothing  for  such  a  case.  And,  if  Plato  failed,  what 
others  were  there  ? 

"  He  knew  of  none. 

"  He  gave  himself  up  to  deeper  thought  and  meditation  ; 
but  the  despondency  of  his  mind  affected  his  he.ilth.  It  was 
to  him  as  though  the  foundation  on  which  all  his -hopes  had 
been  reared  had  crumbled  to  dust  beneath  him. 

"  As  I  was  his  favorite  disciple  before,  so  now  I  became 
his  sole  associate.  For  he  gave  up  teaching  now,  altogether, 
declaring  that  he  knew  nothing  and  had  nothing  to  teach. 

"'The  greatest  blessing  which  God  can  give  to  man,'  he 
said  to  me  once, '  is  the  knowledge  of  truth.  But  how  could 
that  knowledge  come  ?  iMnn  cannot  find  it  out  for  himself. 
Plato  shows  all  that  can  be  learned  by  man  himself,  —  the 
highest  knowledge  that  he  can  possibly  attain  to.  No  phi- 
losopher since  Plato  has  gone  further  than  he,  or  found  out 
anytliing  in  addition.'  He  reminded  me  of  that  passage  in 
the  Plxcdo  with  regard  to  the  immortality  of  the  soul, 
wlicre  Plato  makes  Siminias  virtually  confess  that  man  can 
only  go  to  a  certain  point,  and  beyond  that,  he  needs  some 
help  from  a  higher  source.  'For  we  ought,'  says  Simmias, 
'with  respect  to  these  things,  either  to  learn  from  others 
how  they  stand,  or  to  discover  them  for  oui-selves ;  or,  if 
both  these  are  impossible,  then,  taking  the  best  and  the  most 
irrefragable  of  human  rensonings,  and  embarking  on  this,  as 
one  who  risks  himself  on  a  raft,  so  to  sail  through  life,  un- 
less one  could  be  carried  more  safely,  and  with  less  risk,  on 
a  surer  conveyance  or  on  some  Divine  Woud.' 


\m 


't 


96 


T/te  Master. 


I 


!i 


•'  This  passage  he  used  often  to  quote,  till  we  both  used 
the  term  as  a  well-known  formula,  expressing  some  power 
from  heaven,  gi'eatly  to  be  desired,  which  should  make  all 
things  plain. 

"  But,  as  the  months  passed  on,  he  grew  feebler,  and 
there  was  nothing  that  could  rouse  him  from  his  deep  de- 
pression.    I  saw,  at  last,  that  he  was  dying. 

"And  so,  at  last,  he  passed  away,"  said  Cineas,  in  a 
scarce-  audible  voice.  "  He  left  me,  —  my  friend,  my 
more  than  father ;  and,  as  he  lay  in  my  arms  in  that  last 
hour,  the  last  words  that  I  heard  him  speak  were, — 

"'O  God,  reveal  thyself!'" 

There  was  silence  for  a  long  time.  Cineas  was  the  first 
to  break  it. 

"  Alas,"  said  he,  "  all  life  and  all  religion  are  full  of  per- 
plexity !  What  can  make  it  vanish  ?  Never  can  it,  till  we 
arrive  at  that  other  life  in  which  w^e  all  believe.  Then  we 
shall  know  the  truth.  Do  you  remember  those  noble  lin^  s 
of  Pindar,  Helena,  that  we  used  to  sing  when  we  were 
together  in  our  dear  home  in  Athens  ?  Let  us  sing  them 
again,  dearest  sister,  and  carry  our  hearts  back  to  childliood 
and  our  thoughts  up  to  heaven." 

At  this  invitation,  Helena  rose,  and  took  a  lyre  that  lay 
upon  one  of  the  seats.  Then,  after  a  brief  prelude,  she  sang 
the  following,  while  Cineas  accompanied  her,  — 

"  In  the  happy  fields  of  light, 

Where  Phoebus  with  an  equal  ray 
Illuminates  the  balmy  night, 

And  gilds  the  cloudless  day; 
In  peaceful,  unmolested  joy 
The  good  their  smiling  hours  employ. 
Them  no  uneasy  wants  cinstrain 

To  vex  the  ungrateful  soil, 
To  tempt  the  dangers  of  the  billowy  main, 

Or  break  their  strength  with  unabated  toil, 
A  frail,  disastrous  being  to  maintain; 

But,  in  their  joyous,  calm  abodes. 
The  recompense  of  j  ustice  they  receive. 


i 


T--a.^ 


The  Master. 

And,  in  the  fellowship  of  gods, 
Without  a  tear  eternal  ages  live." 


91 


-Without  a  tear  eternal  ages  live!'"  repeated  Helena 

Oh  IthnnTrf  ^"  '-^^  ^"^-  ^''^--^--e  equal  to  the"  * 
Oh,  foi  that  hfe !     But  how  can  we  find  it  ?  » 

God  will  lead  us,  dear  sister,"  said  Cineas. 

And  as  Poraponia  looked  at  these  two  with  their  earnest 

thiG 7 'T/"!.' "^^' '^"-'^ -^ «^^ ^-thed ; :;: 


IX. 


n 


■ 


THE  RETURN. 

FEW  weeks  afterward  they  were  seated  in  the 
room,  when  an  unusual  disturbance  suddenly  arose 
outside.  There  was  the  quick  tramp  of  horse- 
hoofs  and  luo  shout  of  the  household  servants. 
Helena  turned  pale  as  death,  and,  starting  up, 
staggered  toward  the  door,  like  one  in  a  dream, 
murmuring  some  inarticulate  words.  Cineas  dashed 
past  her,  and  hurried  out,  but  was  encountered  by  a  man 
in  the  costume  of  a  Roman  officer,  who  rushed  into  the 
room,  and,  without  saying  a  word,  caught  Helena  in  his 
arms.  He  strained  her  to  his  heart,  as  though  he  would 
never  part  with  her  again.  Not  a  word  was  spoken.  All 
stood  mute.  Sulpicia  looked  earnestly  at  the  new-comei, 
and  all  her  boasted  Roman  fortitude  gave  way  completely. 
Large  tears  flowed  down  her  face,  and,  clasping  her  hands, 
she  looked  upward  in  ecstasy.  Helena  did  nothing  but 
weep  and  sob  and  cling  to  the  one  whom  she  loved  so 
fondly.  At  last  her  husband  quietly  disengaged  himself, 
and  fondly  embraced  his  venerable  mother.  Then  he  looked 
around  for  his  son. 

"  Where  is  Marcus?"  said  he,  and  that  was  the  first  word 
he  spoke. 

"  There,"  said  Helena,  pointing  to  where  Marcus  stood. 

The  little  boy  stood  at  the  end  of  the  room,  with  a  pale 

face  and  a  strange  mixture  of  joy  and  bashfulness  in  his 

expression.     Tears  stood  in  his  large,  spiritual  eyes,  which 

were  fixed  on  his  father. 

(98) 


The  Return. 


99 


"  My  darling ! "  cried  his  father,  and,  seizing  him  in  his 
his  arms,  he  covered  him  with  kisses.  Marcus  clung  to 
hira,  and  hid  his  face  on  his  shoulder  for  a  moment,  then 
took  another  long  look  at  hira,  and  hugged  him  again  and 
again,  twining  his  arms  about  his  neck.  Labeo  then,  car- 
rying his  son  in  his  arms,  went  to  greet  Cineas,  who  had 
just  entered.  Their  greeting  showed  their  warm-hearted 
affection. 

All  was  joy.  Labeo  had  a  kind  word  for  all.  He  gave 
orders  for  universal  festivity  for  three  days,  and  sacrifices, 
and  then  came  to  the  room  to  answer  all  the  questions  that 
every  one  was  eager  to  ask  him. 

He  was  very  tall,  with  a  magnificent  head  and  strongly- 
marked  Roman  features.  His  frame  was  most  powerful,  — 
only  less  than  gigantic;  and  his  whole  mien  and  tone 
showed  that  he  was  accustomed  to  command.  In  him  there 
was  less  intellect  than  in  Cineas,  but  more  force,  or,  at  least* 
'..ore  appearance  of  it.  He  was  the  ideal  of  the  Roman,  — 
trong,  resolute,  and  self-contained,  —  a  representative  man 
0  *  the  race  which  had  conquered  the  world. 

Vet  this  strong  man  —  this  Roman  —  had  a  depth  of 
affcL'ion,  which  cannot  easily  be  described.  All  his  heart 
seemed  to  yearn  over  his  wife  and  child.  He  never  let 
Marcus  leave  his  arms,  but  held  him  there  while  he  sat, 
and  carried  him  about  while  he  walked.  Marcus,  too,  re- 
turned his  father's  affection  with  equal  intensity.  He 
seemed  to  rest  in  his  father's  arms  in  perfect  peace,  with 
the  air  of  one  who  had  nothing  more  to  wish  for.  Helena 
sat  on  one  side  of  him,  clasping  his  arm,  and  pressing  it  to 
her  heart ;  while  Sulpicia  sat  gravely  on  the  othei',  not  yet 
having  regained  all  her  self-control,  but  often  stealing  a 
look,  such  as  a  mother  only  can  give  to  her  idolized  son, 
with  the  usual  stern  expression  of  her  face  softened  into  a 
milder  one. 

Labeo  had  much  to  tell  them.     He  had  emerged  from 
behind  clouds  and  darkness  into  the  light  of  home  ;  he  had 


lOO 


The  Return. 


come  back  as  though  from  the  dead ;  and  the  events  of  that 
dark  period  were  full  of  interest  to  all. 

He  told  about  the  march  of  his  army  to  Mona,  their 
destniction  of  the  stronghold  of  the  Druids,  and  the  confi- 
dence which  they  all  felt  that  the  country  was  completely 
subjugated.  He  described  the  surprise  and  horror  that 
filled  every  mind  when  they  heard  of  the  rising  of  the 
Britous,  and  the  fierce  thirst  for  vengeance  that  rose  in  the 
minds  of  the  soldiers. 

"Although  the  accounts  were  exaggerated  by  fugitives, 
yet  none  of  us  for  a  moment  ever  doubted  that  we  could 
restore  aiFairs,  and  punish  the  enemy.  We  at  once  marched 
back  across  the  island  to  London,  only  meeting  with  scat- 
tered bands  of  barbarians.  Plere  Suetonius  at  first  in- 
tended to  collect  the  scattered  bands  of  our  soldiers  from 
different  garrisons ;  but  we  heard  that  an  immense  army  of 
Britons  were  approaching.  Suetonius  was  determined  to 
gain  a  decisive  victory,  and  so  he  resolved  to  fall  back,  till 
he  received  more  reinforcements.  We  gave  up  the  town, 
but  allowed  all  the  inhabitants,  who  wished,  to  come  with 
us.  The  Britons  came  after  us,  as  we  fell  back.  At  last, 
all  the  scattered  soldiers  had  joined  us,  and  our  army 
amounted  to  ten  thousand  men.  Then  Suetonius  resolved 
to  fight. 

"  He  chose  a  spot  surrounded  by  woods,  with  a  nari'ow 
opening,  and  a  thick  forest  in  the  rear.  An  open  plain  was 
in  front.  Here  the  Britons  found  us,  and  prepared  to  at- 
tack. They  brought  an  incredible  multitude,  and  were  so 
sure  of  victory  that  they  placed  their  wives  and  children  in 
wagons  within  sight,  where  they  might  behold  the  valor  of 
their  husbands.  This  is  a  common  practice  with  these 
Northern  barbarians ;  for  their  women  encourage  them  by 
their  cries. 

"  Boadicea  went  around  among  them  in  her  chariot,  with 
her  two  daughters,  telling  her  people  of  her  wrongs,  and 
urging  them  to  vengeance.     The  Britons  were  all  wild  with 


The  Return. 


lOI 


disorder,  dan^^ing  and  gosticulating  violently.      We  were  all 
eager,  but  calm ;  for  we  knew  how  it  would  end. 

"  The  Britons  at  la^t  came  on  all  togethei%  wildly  shouting, 
and  showering  their  arrows  against  us.  They  fell  upon  us 
at  the  narrow  opening,  and  soon  were  thrown  into  confusion 
by  their  own  ardor.  Seeing  this,  Suetonuis  drew  us  up  in 
the  form  of  a  wedge,  and  ordered  Ub  to  charge.  We  went 
down  into  the  wild  crowd  with  irresistible  fury.  Every 
tiling  gave  way  before  tho  solid  masses  of  our  heavy-armed 
legions.  The  light  troops  followed.  The  cavalry  charged 
into  the  midst  of  the  enemy,  cutting  them  to  pieces  every- 
where. The  Britons,  who  were  always  confused,  now  be- 
came tangled  in  a  dense  mass,  and  filled  with  the  wildest 
disorder.  At  last,  they  turned  and  fled.  But,  when  the 
fugitives  reached  the  edge  of  the  plain,  they  were  arrested 
There  a  line  of  wagons  was  drawn  up,  and  on  tlie  wagons 
stood  their  wives,  with  their  children,  like  so  many  Bac- 
chantes, crying,  screaming,  imploring,  motioning  their  hus- 
bands back,  beating  their  breasts,  tearing  their  hair,  and 
cursing  the  men  for  cowards.  The  Britons  tried  to  rally, 
but  it  was  impossible.  Thousands  stood  their  ground, 
fighting  fiercely  till  the  last.  The  women  themselves  took 
part  in  it,  and  fought  even  with  the  wagon-poles.  But  after 
all  it  was  not  a  fight ;  it  was  a  slaughter.  Beside  those 
wagons  Camulodune,  London,  and  Verulam  were  well 
avenged.  Men,  women,  and  children  were  all  killed,  and 
even  the  cattle  were  sent  after  them.  Eighty  thousand 
were  killed,  and  the  rest  of  the  army  were  scattered  to  the 
winds,  disorganized  and  terrified  fugitives.  Yet,  in  the 
whole  fight,  we  did  not  lose  over  four  hundred  men." 

"  And  what  became  of  Boadicea  ?  " 

"  After  trying  to  rally  her  men,  she  found  that  all  was 
lost.  She  then  drove  away  from  the  field  of  battle,  and 
took  poison.  Her  body  was  afterwards  found.  Never  was 
there  more  terrible  vengeance  or  a  more  complete  victory. 

"  After  the  victory  I  was  selected  to  bring  the  laurelled 

9* 


it' 


\k    * 


i'  ri'i 


102 


T/ic  Return. 


letters  of  Suetonius  to  Cncsar.  I  am  the  first  to  bring  the 
joyful  tidings  liere.  I  arrived  here  last  nighi,  and  had  to 
wait  for  mt»  audience.' 

"  When  I  WIS  brought  before  Cffisar,  I  found  him  in  high 
good-humor.  He  had  just  heard  that  one  of  his  poems  had 
gained  a  prize  at  some  Greek  game.  His  first  words  to  me 
were,  — 

"'  Cong'-atulate  m/?,  Labeo.  I  am  the  happiest  of  men. 
I  have  gained  the  lyric  prize,'  and  then  went  oiF  into  an 
enthusiastic  eulogy  of  Grecian  taste  and  Grecian  literature. 
At  length  he  recollected  my  errand,  and  said,  —  '  Your  mes- 
sage has  come  at  a  happy  time,  indeed.  I  defeat  the  Brit- 
ons and  gain  the  lyric  prize  on  the  same  day.  Can  any- 
tliing  be  more  auspicious  ? ' 

"  I  murmured  some  assent  or  other,  but  he  did  not  lis- 
ten, —  something  in  my  attitude  seemed  to  strike  him  as  I 
stood  before  him.  He  looked  at  me  narrowly.  Then  he 
rose  and  walked  slowly  backward  and  then  forward,  holding 
his  head  on  one  side,  and  looking  at  me  as  if  I  were  a  piece 
of  art. 

" '  By  the  immortal  gods  ! '  he  cried,  at  last.  *  Don't  move 
for  your  life.  Accidental,  too.  Why,  I  declare  to  you,  I 
wouldn't  have  lost  that  attitude  for  ten  million  sestei'ces. 
Don't  move  for  your  life.  By  Jove  !  it  is  Hercules,  at 
his  apotheosis.' 

"  He  then  summoned  one  of  his  attendants  and  made  him 
draw  my  figure  in  its  peculiar  attitude  ;  occasionally  giving 
directions,  and  all  the  time  charging  me  not  to  move. 

"  Then  he  resum(;d  his  seat,  and  looked  at  me  as  before, 
with  half-closed  eyes.  I  felt  much  embarrassed,  but  could 
do  nothing.  I  certainly  did  not  expect  to  excite  the  admi- 
ration of  Caisar  in  such  a  way. 

"  He  then  went  on  to  tell  me  that  he  was  having  a 
colossal  stivlue  made  representing  himself,  and  that  some- 
thing in  my  attitude  had  suggested  the  very  thing  which  he 
wished  for  his  statue.     While   talking  in  this  way  he  as- 


lii'iii 


The  Return. 


103 


Burcd  me  that  T  must  remain  in  the  palace.     He  would  give 
me  a  part  in  the  household  service. 

"  I  contrived  to  insert  a  word  about  my  family,  and  my 
desire  to  see  them.  He  at  onc«^.  assented,  laughed,  and  said 
I  might  stay  as  long  as  I  liked  ;  and  finally  asked  if  I  were 
fond  of  music,  and  whetiier  I  would  like  to  hear  the  piece 
whicli  had  gained  the  prize. 

"  I  assured  him  tliat  I  would. 

"  He  then  reverentially  took  a  lyre  that  was  near,  and  with 
far  more  seriousness  in  his  face  than  he  had  yet  exhibited, 
proceeded  to  sing  and  play  an  extraordinary  composition 
which  I  hardly  understood.  My  perplexity  showed  itself 
in  my  features ;  but  Ctesar  thouglit  it  was  admiration  and 
was  pleased.  I  do  not  know  now  how  I  could  have  got  out 
of  it ;  but  we  were  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  a  beauti- 
ful girl,  who  came  up  to  Caesar  with  much  familiarity,  and 
the  air  of  a  spoiled  child. 

"  *  How  tiresome  you  are  to  keep  me  waiting,'  she  said. 
*It  is  two  hours.' 

"*  Two  hours,'  cried  Caesar.  He  forgot  all  about  me, 
and  without  any  further  notice  of  me,  he  walked  away.  Af- 
ter waiting  a  short  time,  I  took  my  departure,  thinking 
myself  very  fortunate  in  the  moment  which  I  had  found  for 
my  arrival." 

"  And  didn't  he  ask  a  word  about  Britain,  or  the  battle  ?  " 
asked  Helena,  in  wonder. 

*'  Not  a  word.  He  cares  nothing  for  Britain  or  battles," 
said  Labeo,  with  a  smile.  "  But  what  a  lucky  thing  my  at- 
titude was  !     I  will  certainly  be  promoted  now." 

There  appeared  to  be  a  general  desire  to  avoid  the  subject 
of  Ca>sar.  Each  one  had  his  own  thoughts,  and  those 
thoughts  were  not  always  fit  to  utter.  There  were  many 
associations  which  clung  to  the  name  of  Nero,  and  made  it 
an  uncomfortable  theme. 

"  I  have  enough  stories  to  last  you  for  a  year,  little  boy," 
said  Labeo,  fondling  his  son.     "  All  about  the  savages,  and 


% 


I04 


The  Return. 


their  wicker  boats  ;  and  how  tliey  paint  their  skins ;  and 
their  chariots  with  ycythes  sticking  out  that  can  cut  a  man 
in  two ;  and  the  horrible  Druids  with  their  sacrifices.  "VVe 
will  sit  all  day  under  the  plane-  :rf^es  and  talk,  and  you  will 
learn  how  Romans  fight." 

"  And  I  am  going  to  be  a  Roman  soldier,"  said  Marcus,  his 
eyes  glistening  with  pride,  "  like  my  brave  father ;  and  I'll 
fight  battles  too  —  some  day." 

Labeo  looked  with  fond  pride  on  his  little  boy.  That  boy 
was  a  thorough  Greek,  with  not  a  trace  of  the  Roman  about 
him,  with  the  spirituality,  the  delicacy,  and  the  sensitiveness 
of  his  mother.  Perhaps  this  dissimilarity  to  himself  only 
made  the  father  love  the  boy  more. 

"  Tell  me  all  about  Britain,"  said  Marcus,  nestling  closer 
in  his  father's  arras. 

"  Britain,"  said  Labeo,  "  oh,  it's  a  wonderful  country. 
First,  there  is  the  sea.  Every  day  it  rise,=  and  comes  up  in 
a  great  flood  all  along  the  shore,  and  then  all  the  water  goes 
back  again.  That  is  a  great  wonder,  for  there  is  nothing 
like  it  here.     Our  sea  is  still,  you  know." 

"  Yes,"  said  Marcus.  "  I  saw  the  sea  rolling  in  once ; 
and  I  played  on  the  beach  all  the  day  till  it  went  back 
again." 

"  Oh,  you  remember  that  day,  do  you  ?  "Well,  it  wasn't 
very  long  ago.  But  let  me  tell  you  some  more  wonders. 
They  say  that  far  up  in  the  north  there  is  a  place  where  in 
the  summer  time  it  is  always  light,  for  the  sun  does  not  go 
down." 

"  Why,  where  does  it  go  to  ?  " 

"  It  goes  behind  some  mountains,  I  suppose,"  said  Labeo, 
doubtfully ;  "  but  to  tell  the  truth,  nobody  could  ever  teil 
when;  it  went  to.  And  then  again  in  the  winter  it  is  dark 
almost  all  the  time."  ,  , 

"  Is  that  in  Britain  ?  " 

"  No  ;  this  is  a  country  far  away  from  Britain,  and  it  is 
called  Thule." 


The  Return. 


lOS 


"  Was  any  ov.e  over  there  ?  " 

"  No,  but  mercliinits  Inive  sailed  near  it,  but  they  could 
not  see  it  very  well,  on  account  of  snow-slorms." 

" I  suppose  in  that  dretdful  country  there  is  always 
snow." 

"  Yes,  nothing  but  snow  and  ice.  The  sea  is  all  covered 
with  ice.  It  is  very  hard  to  row  a  ship  along.  Some  peo- 
ple say  that  all  the  water  is  thick  and  heavy,  and  never 
rises  into  waves ;  but  I  don't  know,  for  I  never  found  out 
any  one  who  had  been  there." 

"  Do  any  people  live  there  ?  " 

"  Oh,  they  tell  all  kinds  of  stories  about  that.  Some  say 
giants  live  there,  who  dress  in  fur.  Others  say  that  nobody 
lives  there  at  all.  You  see  that  no  one  knows  anything 
about  it.  Some  people  say  that  Britain  extends  for  thou- 
sands of  leagues  till  it  is  all  mountains  of  ice,  with  snow- 
storms always  raging.  Other  people  say  that  it  is  an  island, 
with  this  sea  of  thick  water  on  the  north.  Perhaps  we  may 
find  out  some  day.  We  can  send  a  fleet  around  it  if  it  is  an 
island." 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  not  in  Britain,  and  I  hope  you'll 
never,  never  go  back  again,"  said  Marcus,  after  a  pause. 

"Why?"  asked  Labeo. 

"  Because  it  is  full  of  savages  and  snow  and  ice ;  and  I 
hope,  if  you  go  away  again,  you  will  go  to  some  country 
where  you  can  always  keep  us  all  with  you." 

"  Were  you  afraid,"  said  Labeo,  looking  at  his  son  with 
inexpressible  fondness,  "that  you  would  never  see  your 
father  again  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Marcus.  "  I  knew  you  would  come  home." 
He  spoke  in  a  positive  tone,  and  shook  his  head  in  a  confi- 
dent way,  as  though  doubt  were  impossible. 

"  You  knew  it  ?  —  why  ?  "  asked  his  father,  curiously. 

"  Because  I  always  prayed  to  God,  and  I  knew  he  would 
hear  me." 

"  Prayed  to  God  !  —  to  what  God  ?  " 


I 


{ 


H 


io6 


The  Return. 


«  To  my  God  and  Father." 

"Your    God   and    Father?   asked    Labeo,    wonderinG;ly. 

Helena  looked  at  her  child  with  a  fond  smile,  knowing 
well  the  sweet  formulas  of  his  innocent,  childish  faith. 

"  To  my  God  and  Father,  who  loves  me.  I  always  pray 
to  him,  and  he  hears  me  always.  And  he  has  heard  me. 
And  you  have  come  back.     And  I  will  thank  him." 

Labeo  looked  at  his  boy,  long  and  silently. 

"  What  do  you  know  about  God  ?"  he  asked,  with  strange 
gentleness  in  his  voice. 

"  All  that  he  has  done  for  me,"  said  Marcus,  "  and  prom- 
ised,    lie  is  so  good.     And  I  see  him  often  in  my  dreams." 

"  The  boy  is  as  strange  as  ever,"  said  Labeo  to  his  wife, 
after  a  pause.  "  He  talks  like  Theophilus,  but  more  di- 
vinely. Theophilus  told  what  he  thought  or  hoped  ;  but 
Marcus  tells  what  he  knows.  It  is  from  you,  my  sweetest 
Helena,  that  this  marvellous  boy  inherits  this  lofty  spiritual 
instinct.  I  am  more  material  than  ever.  When  I  am  away 
from  you,  I  am  merely  the  Roman  soldier.  Now  that  I  am 
with  you  again,  my  most  adored  wife,  you  can  bring  me  back 
to  my  better  feelings.  You  can  tell  me  of  'the  master.* 
I'm  afraid,  though,  that  the  meixiory  of '  the  master '  is  dearer 
to  me,  because  it  was  when  I  was  his  disciple  that  I  loved 

you." 

Helena's  eyes  glistened  with  the  pride  of  a  wife  who 
knows  how  well  she  is  loved.  That  strong  Roman  heart, 
wherein  so  much  valor  and  might  was  present,  beat  only  for 
her.  That  lofty  and  noble  spirit,  whose  devotion  had  been 
tried  for  years,  was  all  her  own.  Her  heart,  long  stricken, 
was  at  last  at  peace. 

The  arrival  of  Labeo  changed  everything.  The  house- 
hold gave  itself  up  to  rejoicing.  Helena  moved  about  with 
a  light,  elastic  step,  always  with  her  husband,  or  following 
him  with  her  eyes.  Cineas  shook  off  the  load  of  responsi- 
bility, which  had  pressed  heavily  upon  him,  and  showed  the 
lightness  and  buoyant  spirits  of  a  true  Athenian.    The  three 


The  Return. 


107 


ft'It  as  tli(»iijj:li  liity  li;ul  i;ono  back  to  early  youth,  —  to  boy- 
hood  aiul  girlhood.  Thi-y  forgot,  for  a  time,  all  the  cares 
of  lii'e. 

After  a  time,  Labeo  thought  of  presenting  himself  before 
Cies-^ar  again,  and  Cineas  decided  to  accomi)any  him.  He 
had  felt  no  desire  to  do  so  belbiv ;  but  now,  since  all  his 
anxiety  was  over,  he  was  curious  to  see  Nero  with  his  own 
eyes,  and  perhaps  somewhat  playfully  desirous  of  trying  the 
force  of  the  advice  of  Burrhus  —  "  Be  a  poet ! " 

Accordingly,  the  two  went  in  company,  and  obtained  ac- 
cess to  Caisar  without  any  difficulty. 

He  was  sitting  at  a  table,  as  they  entered,  with  a  reed 
in  his  hand,  and  parchment  before  him,  on  which  he  was 
transcribing  something.  His  head  was  thrown  on  one  side, 
and  his  eyes  were  upturned  and  half  closed,  with  the  ex- 
pression of  one  lost  in  thought. 

He  was  of  medium  size,  with  a  face  somewhat  fleshy, 
which  presented  rather  a  swollen  appearance.  His  eyes 
were  large  and  fine ;  his  under  jaw  was  moderately  broad ; 
his  lips  thin.  On  the  whole,  he  looked  like  a  dissipated 
man  with  a  turn  for  sentiment.  There  was  nothing  in  his 
appearance  which  marked  him  as  cruel  or  vindictive ;  for 
Nero's  atrocities  arose  from  pei'fect  heartlessness,  rather 
than  from  violent  cruelty.  He  was  utterly  indifferent  to 
suffering.  He  could  inflict  agony,  and  turn  lightly  away 
to  art  or  literature. 

As  Cineas  looked  at  him,  he  thought  of  Agrippina,  —  of 
others,  whose  names  were  on  the  popular  lip,  and  whose 
fate  was  only  whispered.  He  could  see  no  trace,  in  this  man, 
of  the  one  at  whose  name  the  world  already  turned  pale. 

Nero  suddenly  looked  toward  them  with  a  smile  of  rec- 
ognition, which  was  even  fascinating. 

"What!  my  Hercules  —  and  you,  my  Athenian,  —  you 
are  Antinous.  Fi-iends  too.  You  see  I  know  all  about  you. 
But  how  is  it,  that  Cineas,  —  the  Megacleid,  the  Athenian, 


io8 


The  Rciurn» 


the  poet,  the  philosopher,  —  should  have  been  so  long  in 
llonu;  witliuut  coming  to  me?" 

Cinoas  smiled,  and,  with  easy  grace,  excused  himselt'.  He 
spoke  of  his  great  anxiety  about  his  friend,  which  had  de- 
pressed his  si)irits,  and  prevented  him  from  having  that  gay- 
ety,  which  alone  was  iitting  for  the  presence  of  such  a  man 
as  Ciesar.  But  so  soon  as  Labeo  had  arrived,  he  had 
hastened  to  him. 

The  delicacy  with  which  Cineas  insinuated  his  compli- 
ment, consisting,  as  it  did,  more  in  the  tone  than  in  the  words, 
gratified  Nero.  He  spoke  in  Greek,  of  which  language  the 
emperor  was  a  master,  and  his  fine  accent  and  elegant  lan- 
guage gratified  the  imperial  taste.  Here  was  a  man  who, 
even  in  his  first  address,  seemed  to  throw  all  his  other  cour- 
tiers into  the  shade.  Besides  this,  Nero  had  a  kind  of  en- 
thusiasm for  Greek  antiquity,  and  a  Megacleid  was  grander, 
in  his  eyes,  than  the  noblest  name  in  Rome. 

"You  were  right,"  said  Nero;  "you  showed  the  true  Athe- 
nian delicacy."  He  then  went  on  to  sfjcak  about  poetry  and 
metres,  quoted  Pindar,  and  occasionally  took  up  his  lyre,  to 
show  the  proper  way  of  singing  certain  verses. 

Cineas  was  complimentary ;  but  Labeo  was  silent,  not 
knowing  exactly  how  to  express  himself  under  these  unusual 
circumstances.  But  his  silence  rath'  ]■  pleased  Nero,  who 
did  all  the  talking,  and  was  content,  just  now,  at  any  rate, 
with  a  good  listener. 

Finally,  he  informed  Cineas  that  he  had  invent  id  a  new 
system,  by  which  Latin  poetry  should  be  all  revolutionized. 

"  Your  poetry,"  said  he,  "  is  original.  Ours  is  not.  You 
developed  the  genius  of  your  own  language.  Our  poets  imi- 
tated yours.  Our  best  poems  are  only  imitations.  Yet  our 
language  has  certain  beauties  in  which  it  is  superior  to  yours. 
These  have  always  been  neglected  by  our  educated  classes. 
It  is  reserved  for  me,  by  the  propitious  fates,  to  draw  this 
excellency  up  from  its  obscurity,  and  place  Latin  poetry  on 
its  proper  foundation." 


The  Return, 


109 


Cineua  expressed  great  curiosity  to  know  what  tliis  might 
be. 

At  this  moment  another  person  entor<^'d  tlie  apartment, 
and,  after  sahiting  the  emperor,  was  motioned  to  a  seat  near 
him. 

He  was  nil  ehlerly  man,  of  middlinpf  stature,  with  a  refined 
countenance,  and  somewliat  venenihle  mien.  But  about  1  '■>, 
fealurcs  tliere  was  a  certain  worldly-wise  expression,  w!  "  ;h 
smacked  of  shrewdness  and  craft,  that  rather  dcLractcd  from 
his  otherwise  reverend  air.  On  the  whole,  he  had  much 
dignity ;  :md  when  the  emperor,  in  a  courteous  manner,  in- 
troduced the  two  friends  he  sahited  them  with  winning  cour- 
tesy. 

This  was  Seneca,  the  former  tutor  of  Nero,  his  master  in 
philosophy  and  literature,  whose  influence  was  now  on  the 
waiu!,  but  wlio  yet  was  a  privileged  character  at  court. 

"  I  am  about  to  describe  my  discovery  in  poetry,"  said 
Nero,  with  some  importance.  "  It  has  been  reserved  for  the 
master  of  the  world  to  bless  it  in  the  most  important  way  — 
its  literature." 

He  took  up  his  lyre  and  struck  a  few  chords  in  a  i..Jf-ab- 
stracted  way,  and  then  resumed,  — 

"  Our  Latin  tongue  has  certain  qualities  which  make  it  sur- 
pass even  the  Greek.  One  is,  its  richness  in  sonorous  words 
of  similar  sounds.  It  is  difficult  for  the  poet  to  avoid  them, 
they  arc  so  frequent.  Ovid  is  full  of  them.  But  our  poets 
in  everything  but  elegiac  verse  avoid  this  recurrence  of 
similar  words." 

While  he  chattered  on  in  this  way,  Cineas  thought  of 
nothing  but  Agrippina,  and  the  ship  of  death,  and  her  ^  ist 
word^  to  her  assassins.  He  thought  of  Senecn,  when  his 
advice  was  asked  about  her  assassination.  He  felt  as  though 
all  this  terrific  story  must  be  a  dream. 

And  still  Nero  went  on  chattering  about  metres. 

"  Our  own  original  poetry,"  said  he,  "  bears  many  marks 
of  this.     We  began  right.     Our  poets  should  have  cultivated 
10 


no 


The  Return. 


5t.  In  real  music  ^f  verse  we  might  then  have  surpassed 
your  poetry,  Chieas." 

Cineas  nodded,  but  said  nothing. 

"  Cicero  felt  its  beauty,"  he  went  on  to  say.  ''  He  ad- 
mired it.  If  he  had  had  sufficient  poetic  genius  he  might 
have  anticipated  me  ;  but  it  was  reserved  for  me,  —  yes," 
he  repeated,  "  it  was  reserved  for  me.  You  will  find  exam- 
ples of  it  in  his  writings.  The  common  people  love  it. 
This  shows  that  it  belongs  to  the  language.  Listen  to  some 
of  their  songs,  and  you  will  perceive  this  recurrence  of 
similar  sounds  at  the  end  of  verses." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  as  if  trying  to  recall  something, 
and  then  turning  to  Seneca,  he  said,  — 

"I  believe  my  memory  is  bad  to-day.  Do  you  repeat 
those  verses  of  Cicero,  — you  know  what  I  mean,  — some- 
thing which  begins  — '  Priamo  '  —  I  think." 

"  Hsec  omnia  vidi  inflammari 
Priamo  vi  vitara  evetari 
Jovis  aram  sanguine  turpari." 

Seneca  repeated  these  lines  in  a  meek  voice,  laying  stress 
on  the  vhymes. 

"  Yes,"  said  Nero ;  ''  now  repeat  those  others  beginning 
'  Coilum  nitescere.' " 


"  Coelum  nitescere,  arbores  frondescero 
Vites  iKtilicoe  pampinis  pubescere 
Eiimi  baccurum  ubertate  incurvescere." 


11 


I 


Seneca  repeated  these  lines  indicating  the  rhymes  as  be- 
fore, but  evidently  not  sharing  Nero's  admiration. 

"  You  see,"  said  Nero,  "  how  melodiously  our  Latin  lan- 
guage can  convey  those  assonant  sounds.  It  is  magnijicent. 
That  is  true  poetry."     _  ■  .       _.■    .  ■ 

He  paused  for  a  while,  and  took  up  his  lyre  in  an  affected 
manner.     He  struck  a  few  chords,  and  then  looked  around 


'm'^.T 


The  Return, 


III 


for  applause.  All  expressed  their  pleasure  in  a  complimen- 
tary way. 

"  To  show  you  the  admirable  effect  of  this  assonance, 
when  joined  with  really  good  poetry,  I  will  read  you  some 
of  my  lines." 

Saying  this,  he  took  up  the  parchment  before  him,  and 
read  the  following : 


"  Torva  Mimalloncis  implerunt  cornua  bombis, 
Et  raptuni  vitulo  caput  ablatura  superbo 
Bassaris,  et  lynceni  Mwnas  flexura  corynibis, 
Evion  iugeiniuat  ;  reparabilis  adsonat  echo." 

"  Notice,"  he  continued,  proudly,  "  the  fine  effect  of  this 
assonance  of  syllables  mi  malhonis  and  homhis,  vetulo  and 
superbo,  and  so  two  in  the  alternate  line.'*,  homhis  and  corym- 
his  ;  superbo  and  echo.  Tliis  is  the  thing  with  which  I  in- 
tend to  revolutionize  our  Latin  verse." 

"But  I  have  no  cordial  supporters,"  he  said,  pettishly. 
"  All  the  literary  men  are  carried  away  by  prejudices.  The 
Greek  models  enslave  them.  I  admire  the  Greek  poetry 
above  all  things  ;  but  I  think  that  something  might  be  done 
to  make  Latin  poetry  have  some  original  excellence." 

''  Perhaps  it  is  a  blessing  for  the  world,"  he  continued, 
"that  I,  who  am  emperor,  should  be  such  a  lover  of  litera- 
ture, and  have  genius  for  music.  T>y  this  means  I  can  ad- 
vance them.  If  I  had  been  but  a  humble  Roman  I  might 
then  have  been  happier.  I  would  have  produced  some  great 
epic  poem,  —  better  than  Lucan's  Pliarsalia,  at  any  rate. 
But  I  am  what  I  am ;  and  I  give  my  genius  for  music  to 
the  world." 

"  But  even  as  it  is,  I  can  show  that  the  cares  of  state  are 
unable  to  repress  the  efforts  of  genius.  Amid  all  my  trou- 
bles my  lyre  is  my  best  consoler.  There  is  no  power  like 
that  of  music.  You  shall  see  what  a  proficient  I  am.  Shall 
1  give  you  Pindar  ?  " 

And  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  struck  the  wires, 


If  n 


112 


T/ic  Return. 


and,  throwing  his  head  back  in  a  languishing  way,  he  sang 
the  noblest  lines  of  ancient  poetry,  of  which  the  following  is 
the  best  representation,  though  only  a  paraphrase  : 

"  Oh  !  sovereign  of  the  willinp:  soul, 

Purent  of  sweet  and  solemn  breatliing  airs  ! 
Enchanting  shell  !  the  sullen  eares, 

And  frantie  iiastiions  liear  thy  soft  control. 
On  Tliracia's  hills  the  lord  of  war 
Has  curbed  the  fury  of  iiis  car, 

And  dropped  his  feathered  lance  at  thy  coniniaud. 
Perched  on  the  sceptred  hand 
Of  Jove,  thy  magic  lulls  tlie  fenthered  king, 
With  ruflled  plumes  and  flagging  wing; 
Quenched  in  dark  clouds  of  slumber,  lie 
The  terrors  of  his  beak,  and  lightnings  of  his  eye." 


X. 


THE  HOPE   OF  THE  JEWS. 


T  was  not  the  smallest  part  of  Helena's  joy  that 
the  nurse  began  to  recover  health  and  strength 
with  greater  rapidity.  Day  after  day  found  her 
improving.  The  return  of  Labeo  made  her  share 
the  prevailing  happiness.  She  obtained  greater 
self-control,  and  was  no  longer  subject  to  that  ex- 
cessive agitation,  which  had  before  retarded  her 
recovery. 

When  she  heard  of  Labeo's  return,  she  murmured,  "  It  is 
all  His  love.  He  makes  you  happy  again,  and  brings  back 
your  husband.  And  for  me,  too,  though  I  have  been  sorely 
distressed,  He  has  his  own  peace  and  rest." 

She  now  talked  of  one  theme  to  her  mistress.  Day  after 
day  she  talked  of  Him,  who  loved  us  and  gave  Himself  for 
us.  Helena  listened,  and  gradually  found  herself  sharing 
the  views  of  the  nurse.  Pei-haps,  if  left  to  herself  altogether, 
the  return  of  her  husband  might  have  mitigated  her  eager- 
ness to  learn  of  Christ.  But  here  was  one  who  never 
ceased  to  think  of  him.  And  so  it  was,  that,  although  her 
sorrow  had  departed,  yet  her  desire  after  the  truth  remained. 
The  nurse  undertook  no  argument ;  she  only  described. 
Women  often  go  by  intuitions,  or  by  a  certain  instinct,  which 
leads  them  to  see  what  must  be  right.  The  story  of  me 
incarnation  was  thus  unfolded  to  Helena.  Not  only  did  it 
seem  to  her  to  be  more  worthy  of  God  than  the  speculations 
of  philosophy  or  mythology,  but  it  seemed  to  her  to  be  the 
only  theory  worthy  of  him.  Out  of  all  this  there  stood  one 
10*  (113) 


"HI 


114 


The  Hofte  of  the  yews. 


great  idea,  which  came  with  stronger  and  stronger  force  to 
her  mind,  till  it  reigned  there  supreme,  till  it  drew  all  her 
belief.     This  was  the  great  truth  that  God  loves. 

Here  was  that  in  which  the  nurse  found  all  her  comfort. 
The  dealings  of  God  with  man  left  in  her  mind  not  a 
shadow  of  doubt  about  this.  And  all  was  summed  up  in 
Christ.  She  told  to  Helena  all  the  story  of  the  Revelation 
from  the  first,  and  all  had  reference  to  this. 

"  God  has  always  loved  the  world.  He  made  it  for  hap- 
piness, and  he  works  for  its  happiness."  Thus  she  would 
go  on  to  say,  "  The  creatures,  whom  he  made,  turned  away 
from  him,  and  we  have  all  sinned  against  him ;  but  he 
never  forgot  us,  or  despised  us.  He  loved  us  so  that  he 
came  to  us  to  save  us.  He  came  and  lived  as  I  have  told 
you,  and  consented  to  die  to  save  us. 

"  Rest  comes  at  last,"  she  said,  at  another  time.  "  All 
the  sorrow  and  all  the  sighing  and  all  the  suspense  of  life 
shall  cease.  I  shall  see  him.  I  know  he  will  not  cast  me 
off  at  last."  Tears  started  into  her  eyes.  "  Because  I  have 
put  my  trust  in  him,  and  in  grief  I  have  only  clung  more 
closely.     Out  of  the  depths  I  have  cried. 

"  The  dearest  thought  to  me  is  that  my  Saviour  was  the 
Man  of  sori'ows.  There  was  never  sorrow  like  that  sorrow. 
And  amid  it,  he  knew  what  it  was  to  look  on  a  broken- 
hearted mother.  Out  of  all,  he  brings  this  for  me,  that  I 
may  know  how  wondrously  he  loves.  O  Sorrow,  and  Love, 
and  God !  What  have  I  to  do  but  to  give  myself  all  up  to 
him  in  whom  all  these  were  united,  and  wait  till  he  calls  me 
home?" 

Home,  rest,  peace,  heaven.  All  these  words  dwelt  so 
constantly  on  the  lips  of  the  nurse  that  they  lived  in  Helena's 
mind,  and  she,  too,  gained  that  sublime  idea  of  the  future. 
For  the  nurse  assured  her  that  heaven  was  the  solution  to 
the  mystery  of  earth,  and  that  those  who  loved  God  had  no 
home  here,  but  yonder. 

In  that  room  Pomponia,  the  wife  of  Flautius,  often  made 


I 


The  Hope  of  the  yews. 


"5 


a  third.  Helena  soon  had  an  opportunity  to  read  the  prec- 
ious manuscript  of  which  she  had  heard  so  frequently.  In 
that  simple  story,  with  its  divine  words  and  its  momentous 
events,  she  saw  new  displays  of  the  character  of  that  One 
whom  she  sought.  She  heard  words  which  sank  deep 
within  her  heart ;  she  saw  actions  which  thrilled  through  her 
heing.  And  out  of  it  all  there  came  forth,  more  sublimely 
th:ui  ever,  the  great  truth  of  all  truths  to  her,  —  God  loves. 

She  found  herself  drawn  gradually  to  One,  who  thus  be- 
came precious  to  her.  She  wished  to  give  herself  to  him. 
To  go  to  him,  to  confess,  to  pray,  seemed  to  become  a 
necessity  of  her  nature.  A  new  bond  of  union  grew  up 
between  the  mother  and  the  boy.  Now  they  could  sit  to- 
gether, and  talk  of  those  things  which  both  loved.  The 
manuscript  was  there,  from  which  Helena  could  read,  and 
Marcus  could  listen,  till  he  knew  all. 

These  gradual  changes  went  on  almost  impercepti'^'y. 
Helena  often  spoke  with  her  husband  about  these  things, 
which  were  prominent  in  her  thoughts.  Yet,  with  all  their 
strong  mutual  love,  there  was  little  intellectual  sympn'y 
betwoon  these  tw^o.  Labeo  gave  his  wife  all  his  heart,  and 
loved  her  with  tenderness  and  the  most  single-minded  de- 
votion. Her  love  for  him  was  equally  intense.  But,  in 
mind,  these  two  went  in  different  paths.  Helena  and  Cineas 
were  so  completely  in  necord  that  they  could  sometimes 
pursue  the  same  train  of  thought,  so  that  one  could  tell 
what  the  other  was  thinking  of.  They  looked  at  things  in 
tlie  same  way.     But  the  husband  and  wife  were  different. 

Wlien  Helena  spoke  of  her  feelings  or  the  trials  of  her 
mind,  she  said  much  that  was  almost  unintelligible  to  her 
husband.  He  listened,  and  often  caressed  her,  and  told  her 
that  she  was  too  subtle  and  too  much  of  a  Greek ;  i)lay- 
fuUy  scolded  her  for  worrying  about  trifles,  and  wondered 
what  she  wanted  of  new  discoveries  in  religion.  It  was 
all  mystery.     It  was  impossible  to  understand  it. 

He  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  the  Supreme  Being  rieveP 


ii6 


The  Hope  of  the  yeivs. 


intended  that  men  should  fret  themselves  and  drive  them- 
selves mud  about  the  unseen  world.  If  he  had  intended  us 
to  speculate  these  matters  he  could  easily  have  told  us  some- 
thing definite. 

"  For  my  part,"  he  continued,  "  when  I  was  under  the  in- 
fluence of  '  the  master,'  and  young  and  impressible,  with 
nothing  serious  in  life,  and  with  my  divinest  little  Helena  to 
make  all  things  glorious,  then  I  had  a  taste  for  these  specu- 
lations. Yet  even  then  I  loved  the  doctrines  of  '  the  mas- 
ter,* because  I  saw  in  them  something  definite.  He  taught 
me  what  was  my  duty  to  my  friends,  my  enemies,  my  family, 
and  my  country. 

"  But  do  you  not  see  how  impossible  it  is  to  obtain  any  re- 
sult when  you  go  beyond  morality,  and  practical  duty  ?  All 
philosophy  is  confused.  No  two  systems  or  branches  of 
systems  are  similar.  It  is  fit  only  for  young  students  who 
wish  to  exercise  their  wiis.  or  for  men  of  literary  leisure,  who 
have  nothing  in  particuLir  to  do. 

"  I  was  a  youth  when  '  the  master '  tau,;ht  me.  I  am 
a  man  now,  —  a  Roman  soldier,  —  ambitious,  energetic, 
resolute  in  my  aim  to  rise  in  life  and  elevate  the  family. 
I  have  lost  all  the  taste  I  ever  had  for  these  speculations, 
and  would  far  rather  read  a  dispatch  from  Corbulo  than  a 
treatise  by  Seneca.  And  I  would  not  give  Ciesar's  com- 
mentaries for  the  whole  body  of  Greek  philosophy. 

"  But  with  you,  it  is  different,"  he  continued,  in  a  proud, 
fond  tone.  "  You  are  spiritual.  You  are  as  far  before  me, 
in  taste  and  subtlety,  as  I  am  before  you  in  bodily  strength. 
I  love  you  all  the  better  for  it.  I  love  to  hear  you  speak 
of  these  things.  I  never  heard  anything  like  your  voice. 
But  to  tell  the  truth,  it  is  all  the  same  with  me,  whatever 
you  speak  of.  I  listen  as  I  listen  to  music.  It  is  the  tone 
that  I  hear." 

There  never  was  a  more  unpromising  subject  for  spiritual 
conversation.  Indeed,  such  conversations  invariably  ended 
in  the  same  way.     It  all  turned  off  to  the  subject  of  iheir 


The  Hope  of  the  yews. 


117 


mutual  love,  and  each  thought  the  other  was  dearer  than 
ever. 

Now,  with  Cineas  and  Helena,  though  they  were  so 
very  much  alike,  there  were  differences.  Cineas  was  an 
earnest  inquirer  after  truth,  and  sought  it  under  all  forms. 
He  had  heard  the  Christian  doctrine  explained,  to  some  ex- 
tent, hy  Julius,  and  yet  he  found  it  not  acceptable.  Plis 
mind  was  possessed  of  larger  resources  than  Helena's.  He 
reasoned  more.  He  felt  doubt  and  hesitation  where  she  felt 
none.  The  partial  knowledge  which  he  had  gained  left  him 
where  he  was  before. 

Haj)pening  to  be  with  Isaac  one  day,  he  mentioned  some- 
thing about  the  Christians. 

Isaac  at  once  exhibited  strong  excitement.  Cineas  in- 
quired the  reason. 

"  I  hate  them ! "  said  Isaac,  fiercely. 

"  Why  ?     They  are  not  hateful." 

"  They  are  to  a  true  Jew.  They  are  the  followers  of  a 
false  prophet,  who  was  tried  for  treason,  and  crucified.  But 
their  worst  fault  is,  that  they  seek  to  rob  us  of  our  dearest 
hope." 

"  How  is  that?    What  is  your  dearest  hope  ?  " 

"The  restoration  of  our  independence,  and  our  triumph 
over  men." 

"  Do  you,  then,  believe  that  it  is  possible  for  you  Jews  to 
become  the  masters  of  the  world  ?  " 

"With  God,  all  things  are  possible,"  said  Isaac,  solemnly. 

"  I  know,"  said  Cineas,  "  all  that  your  sacred  books  de- 
clare about  this.  But  this  very  thing  is  an  obstacle  to  me. 
How  can  we  Greeks  believe  in  a  book,  which  only  promises 
this  ? "  He  thought  of  "  the  master's  "  search,  his  experi- 
ence, and  his  disappointment,  but  said  nothing  of  this  to 
Isaac. 

"  God  chose  us  out,"  said  Isaac,  calmly,  and  with  lofty 
emphasis.  "  Ages  ago,  he  raised  up  Abraham,  our  father, 
from  whom,  we  are  descended.     A  nation  arose  from  that 


1  "l 


,4  '! 


118 


T/ic  IIupc  of  the  yczus. 


m 


man, — ^the  friend  of  God,  —  and  this  nation  has  always 
stood  apart,  the  followers  of  God,  and  his  favorite  people. 
All  our  history  is  interwoven  with  him.  He  has  been  our 
guide.  "We  are  oppressed  now, — a  subject  people  ;  but  we 
have  been  far  worse.  It  has  been  his  will  to  guide  us  in  a 
way  which  seemed  dark. 

" '  Clouds  and  darkness  are  round  about  him ; 

Justice  and  judgment  are  the  habitations  of  his  throne.' 

"  Praised  be  his  holy  name  ! 

"We  have  been  enslaved,  afflicted,  led  into  captivity. 
We  have  endured  calamities  which  would  have  crushed  any 
other  people.  But  he  has  been  faithful.  He  has  chastised 
us  so  as  to  bring  us  back  to  him.  After  the  chastisement, 
we  ha^'e  ever  returned  to  him,  and  said,  '  Praised  be  his 
holy  name.' 

"  Amid  it  all,  he  has  cheered  us  by  his  sublime  promise. 
He  has  told  us  that,  in  the  course  of  ages,  a  time  would 
come  when  all  our  sufferings  would  end.  One  would  ap- 
pear, who  should  lead  us  into  perpetual  rest.  Through  him 
we  should  triumph.  His  holy  reign  should  be  extended  over 
all  the  world.  All  nations  should  be  blessed  in  him,  yea, 
all  nations  should  call  him  blessed.  Then  the  presence  of 
the  Most  High  in  the  holy  city  should  be  adored  over  all 
tl"^  earth.  Jerusalem  should  become  a  place  of  pdgrim- 
age,  and  he  should  reign  over  all.     This  has  been  our  hope." 

"  You  speak,"  said  Cineas,  "  the  thoughts  of  a  Jew.  Can 
the  rest  of  the  woild  consider  it  a  blessing  from  God  that  a 
Jew  should  reign  over  them  ?  Why  should  I  prefer  Rome 
to  Jerusalem  ?  The  Roman  is  just.  The  whole  world  is 
at  peace  under  his  impartial  and  powerful  rule.  If  we 
Greeks  want  anything  from  God,  it  is  our  old  independence, 
—  the  days  of  our  ancient  glory. 

"  If  I  look  at  your  sacred  writings,  one  thing  repels  me, 
and  it  is  the  very  thing  which  gives  you  so  much  joy.  I  do 
not   want   a   conqueror.      Philosophy   tells  me   something 


The  Hope  of  the  yews. 


119 


all 
tiin- 
)e." 
an 
lat  a 
me 
is 
we 
Ince, 


better  than  this.  If  you  looked  upon  your  writings  with 
our  eyes,  you  would  not  believe  in  them.  It  is  not  the  just 
and  worthy  part  of  a  holy  Gcd  to  give  a  revelation  to  man 
that  tells  nothing  more  than  this. 

"  You  speak  about  a  chosen  people,  and  you  tell  of  your 
wonderful  history,"  he  continued,  while  greater  animation 
expressed  itself  in  his  words.  "  Where,  I  ask  you,  would 
one  look  for  a  chosen  people  ?  The  Romans  have  a  better 
claim  than  the  Jews.  They  have  risen,  from  small  begin- 
nings, to  the  empire  of  the  world.  Is  not  that  the  favor  of 
God  ?  If  the  favor  of  God  means  conquest  over  a  world, 
then  the  Romans  are  his  people.  They  have  conquered 
even  that  place  which  you  consider  his  own  holy  city. 

"  If  I  were  to  search  for  the  chosen  people,  I  would  find 
a  nation  which  has  done  something  more  than  win  battles. 
The  grandeur  of  the  mind  is  greater  than  that  of  the  body. 
The  Romans  are  material;  but  the  Greeks  are  intellectual. 
The  philosopher  tries  to  look  at  God  and  spiritual  things 
from  a  spiritual  point  of  view.  He  will  not  allow  himself 
to  be  overcome  by  vulgar  display.  The  Greek  mind  is  to 
him  the  most  marvellous  thing  on  earth.  We  have  human- 
ized men,  and  taught  them  all  things.  We  have  given 
them  knowledge,  art,  literature,  music,  philosophy,  —  all 
that  is  best  and  highest  in  life. 

"  We  have  taught  men  how  to  think.  Our  state  is  now 
subject  to  Rome ;  but  the  mind  is  free,  and  Greece  rules 
the  mind  of  the  world.  What  is  it  to  be  chosen  of  God,  if 
this  is  not  ?  If  he  does  anything  for  the  government  of  the 
world,  this  must  surely  have  been  his  doing.  Thus,  you 
see,  I  can  say  something  too  about  a  chosen  people.  I  am 
sorry  that  I  have  had  to  boast ;  but  you  made  it  necessary." 

"  Noble  Cineas,  all  that  you  have  said  is  true,"  answered 
Isaac,  calmly.  "  But  you  have  not  said  enough.  I  might 
allow  that  God  had  raised  up  the  Romans  to  conquer  the 
world,  and  banish  wars  among  different  states  ;  and  that  he 
created  the  Greeks  to  rule  over  the  human  mind.     He  gave 


Mji 


1 20 


The  Hope  of  the  yews. 


to  the  Romans  material  power,  to  the  Greeks  intellectuaL 
Is  there  nothnig  more  to  give  ? 

"  There  is.  Tlicre  is  a  {)0\ver  greater  than  even  the  intel- 
lectual, and  this  is  the  8[)iritual.  This  lie;  gave  to  the  Jews, 
lie  formed  us  for  this.  He  trained  us  for  this,  and  moulded 
all  our  natures  so  that  we  should  show  forth  this. 

"  What  is  this  spiritual  power  ?  It  is  the  capacity  to  un- 
derstand Him  —  to  helieve  in  Ilim.  To  have  firm  faith  in 
the  Unseen ;  to  worship  the  Spirit.  This  is  the  character 
of  our  race.  We  adore  the  Invisible,  and  need  no  idols  to 
represent  him.  It  is  not  thus  with  a  few  philosophers,  but 
with  the  whole  nation.  The  humble,  illiterate  peasant,  the 
rude  artisan,  the  wild  fisherman,  among  us,  all  cherish  this 
sublime  belief  in  the  existence  and  the  presence  of  the  one 
God.  Such  a  people  appear  nowhere  else,  and  if  they  did 
not  really  exist,  the  thing  would  be  pronounced  impossible  by 
those  who  know  only  the  ordinary  races. 

"  He  formed  us,  chose  us,  set  us  apart,  trained  us  to  be  his 
people.  As  his  people  we  have  lived.  All  his  dealings  with 
us  have  had  reference  to  this.  Where  we  showed  a  tenden- 
cy to  forget  him,  he  has  brought  us  back.  When  we  have 
actually  practised  idolatry,  he  has  chastised  us.  We  have 
thus  lived  through  many  ages,  and  while  all  the  world  was 
dark,  we  have  had  the  true  light.  We  have  had  the  truth, 
and  have  carried  it  always  down  to  the  present  day. 

"  But  there  is  something  more  than  this  in  our  histo- 
ry. We  have  carried  it  thus  far,  but  it  has  been  made 
known  to  us  that  we  were  to  have  a  far  grander  mission. 
For  age  after  age  the  promise  has  been  made,  and  reiterated 
under  the  most  solemn  circumstances,  that  at  some  time 
in  the  future.  One  would  come,  who  would  find  us  all  pre- 
pared, and  would  extend  over  the  whole  world  the  worship 
of  the  God  of  Abraham.  Then  we  should  receive  the 
reward  of  our  suffering,  we  the  chosen,  the  trained  people, 
would  follow  our  Messiah  to  this  sublime  conquest.  We 
should  participate  in  all.      As  we  had  shared  the  sorrow,  so 


The  Hope  of  the  Jews. 


121 


should  we  share  the  joy.  Since  our  God  had  subjected  us  to 
striff,  he  would  linuUy  give  us  glorious  victory. 

"  This  is  why  it  is  right  mid  just  in  him  to  make  us  the  ru- 
lers over  the  earth.  Our  rule  under  the  Messiah  would 
be  better  far  tiian  that  of  the  Romans.  The  time  shall 
come,  when  all  this  shall  be.  There  shall  then  be  no  tyran- 
nical governors,  no  distressed  and  plundering  armies,  no 
oppressed  nations  rising  up  in  rebellion.  Our  God  shall 
change  the  face  of  nature  itsc  "  'u  that  day.  The  desert  shall 
give  birth  to  verdure.  The  wild  beasts  shall  grow  tame. 
War  shall  be  known  no  more,  but  God  shall  reign  in  his 
holy  hill  of  Zion." 

Cineas  said  nothing ;  all  this  was  to  him  the  fond  extrava- 
gance of  a  Jew.  These  sacred  writings  then  had  nothing 
more  than  this.  This  was  his  thought,  and  some  disappoint- 
ment came  over  him.  He  thought  that  Isaac  would  know,  if 
any  one  did,  and  Isaac's  explanation  was  not  agreeable. 

"  All  oui  writings  are  full  of  this,"  said  Isjiac.  "  These 
prophecies  have  become  the  joy  and  support  of  our  people, 
and  this  is  why  we  wait  and  suffer  on.  This  is  what  they  say. 
Listen." 

And  Isaac  began :  — 

"'Sing,  0  Heavens;  and  be  joyful,  O  Earth; 
And  break  f'ortli  into  singing,  0  mountains; 
For  the  Lord  liath  conifurtcf'  his  people 
And  will  have  mercy  upon  his  afflicted. 
But  Zion  said,  "  The  Lord  hath  forsaken  me, 
And  my  God  hath  forgotten  me." 
Can  a  woman  forget  her  sucking  child, 

That  she  should  not  have  compassion  on  the  son  of  her  womb? 
Yea,  they  may  forget,  yet  will  I  not  forget  thee. 
Behold !     I  have  graven  thee  upon  the  palms  of  my  hands. 
Thy  walls  are  contiimally  before  me.'  " 


Isaac  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  sighed,  then  he  repeated 
tlu<  last  few  lines,  while  his  eyes  glistened  with  emotion. 
Then  he  went  on  :  — 
11 


122 


The  Hope  of  the  Jews. 


'M 


"  '  Thy  children  shall  make  liasto :  thy  destroyere 
And  they  that  nmdo  thuo  wuntc  hIiiiII  go  furth  of  thee. 
Lift  lip  thine  eyes  round  about,  luid  behold: 
All  these  gather  themselves  together  and  come  to  thee. 

As  I  live,  suitli  the  Lord, 
Thou  slmit  surely  clothe  theo  with  them  all  as  with  an  ornament, 
And  bind  them  on  thee  ns  a  bride  doth. 

For  thy  waste  and  thy  desolate  places,  and  the  land  of  thy  destruction, 
Shall  even  now  be  too  narrow,  by  means  of  the  inhabitants; 
And  tiiey  that  swallowed  thee  up  shall  be  far  away. 
The  children  whidi  thou  shalt  have  after  thou  hast  lost  the  other 
Shall  say  again  in  tliine  ears:  — 
*'  The  place  is  too  straight  for  me. 
Give  place  to  me,  that  I  may  dwell." 
Then  shalt  thou  say  in  thine  heart:  — 
♦'  Who  hath  begotten  me  these? 

Seeing  I  have  lost  my  children,  and  am  desolate,  a  captive. 
And  removing  to  and  fro;  and  who  hath  brought  up  these? 
Behold  I  was  left  alone,  —  these,  where  had  they  been?  " 

Thus  saitU  the  Lord  God : 
Behold  I  will  lift  up  mine  hand  to  the  Gentiles, 
And  set  up  my  standard  to  the  people ; 
And  they  shall  bring  thy  sons  in  their  arms; 
And  thy  daughters  shall  be  carried  upon  their  shoulders. 
And  kings  shall  be  thy  nursing  fathers, 
And  their  queens  thy  nursing  mothers; 

They  shall  bow  down  to  thee  with  thi'ir  face  towards  the  earth, 
And  lick  up  the  dust  of  thy  feet; 
And  thou  shalt  know  that  I  am  the  Lord, 
For  they  shall  not  be  ashamed  that  wait  for  me.— 
Shall  the  prey  be  taken  from  the  mighty, 
Or  the  lawful  captive  delivered? 

But  thus  saith  the  Lord : 
Even  the  captives  of  the  mighty  shall  be  taken  away, 
And  the  prey  of  the  terrible  shall  be  delivered. 
For  I  will  contend  with  him  that  contendeth  with  thee, 
And  I  will  save  thy  children; 

And  I  will  feed  them  that  oppress  thee  with  their  own  flesh, 
And  they  shall  be  drunken  with  their  own  blood  as  with  sweet  wine; 
And  all  flesh  shall  know  that  I  the  Lord  am  thy  Saviour 
And  thy  Redeemer  —  the  mighty  One  of  Jacob.'  " 

In  repeating  these  lines,  Isaac  seemed  again  as  on  a  former 
occasion  to  lose  sight  of  his  companion.  He  was  like  one  who 
utters  a  soliloquy.    The  comfort,  the  triumph  were  all  his 


The  Hofe  of  the  yews. 


123 


own.  There  was  something  in  these  words  that  did  not  fail 
to  affect  Cineas.  The  tender  rehition  which  they  portrayed 
between  a  chosen  people  and  their  God,  seemed  to  warrant 
Isaac's  lofty  belief  in  the  destiny  of  his  people.  That  desti- 
ny seemed  to  be  proclaimed  in  unmistakable  language,  yet 
the  idea  was  repulsive  to  the  Athenian.  Mere  material  tri- 
umph, conquest,  victory,  however  great  in  its  result,  was  not 
to  his  mind  the  higlie^t  action  of  Deity.  It  was  to  vulgarize 
the  sublime  conception  of  the  Infinite  Mind.  It  would  be  to 
make  of  Jerusalem  merely  another  Rome.  And  why  should 
he,  an  Athenian,  see  anything  divine  in  such  a  plan  ? 

"  Behold,"  said  Isaac,  "  the  picture  of  the  future.  All  is 
told  us  plainly ;  on  this  we  rely.  The  Messiah  will  come 
and  lead  us  to  all  this." 

"  It  is  very  grand  in  its  way,"  said  Cineas ;  "  but  still  I 
can  see  nothing  worthy  of  the  Deity  in  such  a  plan.  If  this 
were  figurative ;  if  your  Messiah  were  a  teacher ;  if  his 
conquests  were  those  of  Truth ;  if  he  taught  the  perfect  good, 
and  perfect  fair,  then  it  would  be  worthy  of  God." 

"  A  teacher  !  "  said  Isaac,  in  indescribable  tones,  "  a  new 
teacher !  What  could  such  a  one  do  ?  Teachers  without 
number  have  come.  Prophets  and  priests  have  spoken  the 
words  of  God.  What  have  they  done  ?  Nothing.  Even 
among  us,  the  chosen  people,  their  voices  have  scarcely  been 
heard.  No,  we  need  something  grander  ;  we  need  a  mighty 
potentate,  who  shall  lead  us  on  to  triumph,  amid  mighty  mir- 
acles like  those  of  God.  He  will  lead  us  through  the  sea, 
which  shall  open  to  let  us  pass,  and  all  the  elements  sl.all 
fight  with  us  against  our  enemies." 

Cineas  looked  at  him  with  deep  disappointment  in  his  face. 

"  And  is  that  all  ?  Is  that  the  end  of  your  divine  revela- 
tion ?  Why,  beside  that,  Plato  is  indeed  divine.  Socrates  is 
a  God  beside  such  a  Messiah.  For  your  promised  leader 
would  only  fill  the  earth  with  terrible  wars,  and  all  mankind 
would  be  convulsed." 

"  But  think  on  the  grand  end  of  all." 


*l 


124 


The  Hope  of  the  yews. 


"  The  grand  end  of  all !  To  have  Jorusalera  instead  of 
Rome  for  our  capitol.  This  idea  of  fighting,  and  mai-cliiug, 
and  conquest,  is  merely  one  which  affects  the  vulgar  mind. 
What  does  the  Divine  Being  want  of  all  this  ?  You  make 
him  one  who  would  sacrifice  all  the  nations  of  the  earth  for 
a  spectacle.  That  might  do  for  the  ruler  of  Olympus,  not 
for  the  god  of  philosophy." 

"  His  conquest,"  said  Isaac,  without  heeding  the  evident 
disappointment  and  shght  asperity  of  Cineas,  "  His  con- 
quest will  exalt  his  people.  It  will  fill  the  earth  with  his 
glory.  The  end  of  all  will  be  happiness  for  all.  Earth 
shall  receive  a  new  Golden  Age,  and  he  shall  reign  —  over 
all." 

"  And  in  the  midst  of  his  grandeur,"  said  Cineas,  "  such  a 
one  would  be  far  inferior  to  our  Great  Teacher,  as  he  stood 
up  on  his  death  trial,  and  told  his  enemies  how  he  forgave 
them  all." 

"  Your  Messiah  on  the  throne  of  Jerusalem,  the  conqueror 
of  a  subject  world,  surrounded  by  his  Jewish  armies,  would 
fall  beneatn  the  attitude  of  Socrates  in  his  prison,  when  he 
took  the  cup  with  an  enthusiastic  smile,  and  drank  off  tne  poi- 
son. I  have  no  admiration  for  this  conqueror  of  yours. 
Tell  me  that  your  prophecies  of  triumph  are  figurative. 
Tell  me  that  his  victory  is  over  the  soul,  and  then  I  will  look 
for  the  Divine  in  your  writings.'' 

"  No,"  said  Isaac  sternly,  and  with  eager  positivcness. 
"Impossible.  They  are  literal,  or  nothing  is  true.  Take 
a,way  that  literal  truth,  and  all  the  hope  of  ages  dies.  Then 
the  Jews  have  been  mocked.  To  suppose  the  Messiah  a 
figurative  conqueror  over  the  mind  of  man,  is  to  insult  us  in 
our  degradation.  No!  No!"  he  repeated  in  a  kind  of 
frenzy,  "  I  have  been  tempted  to  think  it  so,  but  it  is  past. 
I  hold  on  to  the  word  of  God,  to  his  promise.  He  who  ciiose 
us  out,  and  subjected  us  to  such  long  suffering,  never  meant 
to  mock  us  with  such  a  shadow.     He  who  bade  us  hope 


fl 


The  Ho^e  of  the  ycivs. 


125 


never  meant  thus  to  deceive  us  and  break   our  hearts  — 
never !  —  never  ! 

"  Tliis,"  he  continued,  after  a  pause,  and  with  a  bitterness 
in  his  tones  that  Cineas  had  never  known  before,  "  this  is 
why  I  hate  the  Christians.  They  are  the  ones  who  present 
tills  mockery,  this  phantom,  before  us,  in  all  its  hideous 
baroness.     Listen. 

"  A  man  came  who  pretended  to  teach  some  new  doctrines. 
He  gained  followers.  Any  man  can  get  followers,  no  matter 
what  he  says.  These  disciples  of  his  pretended  that  he  was 
the  Messiah.  He  pretended  the  same.  He  said  he  was  de- 
scended from  our  Royal  House,  and  was  King  of  the  Jews. 
He  was  tried  for  this,  condemned  and  executed." 

Isaac  gnashed  his  teeth  as  he  came  to  this.  His  rage 
made  him  almost  inarticulate. 

"  What  —  what  can  you  think  was  the  result  of  this  ? 
Did  his  followers  disperse  ?  No.  They  dared  to  get  up  a 
new  deception.  They  dared  to  say  that  he  had  arisen  from 
the  dead ;  and  still  continued  with  a  thousand  fold  more  zeal 
than  ever  to  proclaim  that  this  malefactor  was  the  Messiah. 

"  The  agonizing  part  of  all  this  to  a  Jew  was  the  hideous 
appearance  of  reason  which  their  arguments  possessed.  They 
referred  all  our.prophecies  to  tliis  man.  They  took  —  all  — 
all  —  all.  They  are  the  men  who  say  that  in  these  prophe- 
cies all  is  spiritual,  and  that  the  Messiah  has  come  as  a 
Teacher,  to  convince  the  minds  of  men. 

"  Worse  than  this.  They  take  all  our  hopes,  all  our  aspi- 
rations, all  the  promises  of  our  God  to  us,  his  chosen  ones, 
they  give  all  these  to  other  alien  races.  They  proclaim  the 
teachings  of  their  crucified  Master  to  all  races,  and  teach  that 
the  Jew  has  no  greater  privileges  or  hopes  than  any  other 
man.  The  worst  of  all  their  teachers  is  this  Paul,  who  is 
now  in  Rome,  —  who  glories  in  this  doctrine,  —  a  renegade 
Jew,  —  an  apostate  ;  —  a  traitor  to  his  country,  —  a  betrayer 
of  his  God. 

"  Alas  for  the  agonies,  the  long,  long  agonies  of  our  race, 
11* 


126 


The  Hope  of  the  yews. 


if  it  is  to  end  in  this  ;  if  the  hope  of  our  final  triumph  is  thus 
to  be  dashed  to  pieces  by  Him  who  inspired  us  with  it !  But 
no.  Never,  never  will  I  let  the  tempter  rob  me  of  my  faith 
in  Him !  Though  He  slay  me  and  my  race,  yet  will  I  trust 
in  Him.  He  will  fulfil  his  promise.  He  will  bless  his  peo- 
ple. I  will  praise  and  bless  his  holy  name  as  long  as  I 
I've. 

"  No  —  no  !  He  will  do  what  he  has  said.  For  our  proph- 
ets have  clearly  indicated  the  time,  and  that  time  is  at 
hand.  We  expected  him  years  ago,  but  now  he  must  come 
soon.  All  the  events  that  now  occur  show  this.  The  Jews 
are  all  in  the  attitude  of  hope  and  expectation.  They  watch 
for  his  coming.  But  oh !  it  breaks  the  heart  to  wait,  and 
wait,  and  still  say,  *  Will  He  never  come  ? '  " 

Isaac  paused,  and  then  clasping  his  hands,  he  raised  them 
over  his  head,  and,  with  streaming  eyes,  he  cried  out :  — 


iMi::' 


" '  Oh  that  Thou  wouldst  rend  the  heavens  — 
That  Thou  wouldst  come  down  — 
That  the  mountains  might  flow  down  at  Thy  presence, 
As,  when  the  melting  fire  burneth,  the  fire  causeth  the  waters  to  boil, 
To  make  Thy  name  known  to  Thine  adversaries, 
That  the  nations  may  tremble  at  Thy  presence ! 
When  Thou  didst  terrible  things  that  we  looked  not  for, 
Thou  caniest  dovn;  the  mountains  flowed  down  at  Thy  [iresence. 
For,  since  the  beginning  of  the  world,  men  have  not  heard  nor  perceived 

by  the  ear. 
Neither  hath  the  eye  seen,  0  God,  beside  Thee, 
What  He  hath  prepared  for  him  that  waiteth  for  Him.'  " 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  resumed,  — 

" '  Thou  hast  hid  Thy  face  from  us. 
And  hast  consumed  us  because  of  our  iniquities; 
But  now,  O  Lord !     Thou  art  our  Father : 
We  are  the  clay,  and  Thou  our  potter. 
And  we  are  all  the  work  of  Thine  hands. 

Be  aot  wroth  very  sore,  0  Lord !  neither  remember  iniquity  forever. 
Behold  —  see  —  we  beseech  Thee  —  we  are  all  Thy  people. 
The  holy  cities  are  a  wilderness ;  Zion  a  wilderness ;  Jerusalem  a  deso- 
lation!'" 


I W 


IT 


The  Hope  of  ike  yews. 


127 


Isaac  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  was  silent  for  a 
long  time.  Cineas  marvelled  at  the  words  which  he  had 
epoken.  The  depth  of  huuiiliation,  the  sad  confession  of  sin, 
the  mourning  over  a  nation's  woe,  which  they  expressed,  was 
blended  with  a  lofty  confidence  in  the  Deity,  which  seemed 
to  express,  even  in  the  depths  of  sorrow,  an  unfaltering  trust. 
Still  he  felt  that  Isaac's  words  expressed  a  desire  after  a 
great  conqueror,  some  king  who  should  reduce  the  world  to 
subjection  under  Jerusalem.  He  wondered  why  such  an 
idea  still  kept  its  hold  of  a  people  who  saw  before  their  eyes 
the  resistless  power  of  Rome. 

At  last,  after  some  time,  Isaac  looked  up.  He  was  calm. 
A  melancholy  smile  was  on  his  face. 

"  I  know  not  how  to  apologize,"  said  he,  "  most  noble 
Cineas,  for  my  extreme  agitation.  The  subject  which  has 
been  brought  before  me  always  excites  me,  in  spite  of  my- 
self. I  lose  my  self-control.  Pardon  me,  I  was  going  to 
bring  to  you  to-day  the  result  of  my  examinations.  Hegio 
has  to  account  for  ten  million  sesterces.  From  what  I  know 
of  his  aifairs,  he  is  well  able  to  make  it  good.  See,"  said  he, 
and  he  took  some  tablets  which  he  placed  before  Cineas. 
"  Here  is  the  result." 

Isaac  then  began  to  explain  the  accounts,  and  showed  to 
Cineas  the  whole  course  of  Hegio  since  the  family  had  come 
from  Britain.     It  showed  a  deficit  such  as  he  had  stated. 

Cineas  took  the  tablet:^,  and  said,  — 

"  It  will  have  to  be  refunded,  in  some  way  ;  Labeo  shall 
see  that  it  is  all  made  good,"  and  then  took  his  leave. 


Hi.  1^ 


XI. 


THE  STEWARD  PUNISHED. 

EGIO  had  long  since  found  out  tho  terrible  mistake 
he  had  made  in  setting  Cineas  at  defiance.  After 
the  memorable  interview  with  him,  he  had  made  in- 
quiries and  found  out  that  Cineas  was,  indeed,  all 
that  he  had  stated,  and  even  more.  His  wealth, 
O  learning,  nobility,  and  reputation  made  him  one  of 
1  the  most  distinguished  visitors  to  Rome.  Had  he 
been  anything  except  an  illiterate  freedman  he  would 
have  been  familiar  with  so  splendid  a  name.  Even  his  pa- 
tron, Tigellinus,  could  only  call  him  a  fool,  and  assure  him 
that  he  would  rather  have  Cineas  for  a  friend  than  an  ene- 
my. 

The  return  of  Labeo  added  to  his  consternation.  For 
Labeo  came  back  in  triumph  and  in  honors,  the  herald  of  a 
great  victory,  the  bearer  of  laurelled  letters.  His  reception 
by  Nero  was  said  to  have  been  most  flattering.  Promotion 
was  before  him,  and  favor  and  advancement  at  court.  Be- 
fore such  men  Hegio  was  nothing. 

In  his  speculations  he  had  lost  money  and  made  it.  But 
the  sum  which  he  had  abstracted  from  the  funds  of  Labeo 
was  large,  and  might  be  discovered  on  a  strict  examination 
of  the  accounts.  If  a  crisis  came  and  all  was  discovered,  he 
would  have  to  refund.  He  could  not  run  away.  In  the 
Roman  empire  there  was  no  place  for  flight.  The  arms  of 
the  government  extended  everywhere ;  and  a  man  like 
Cineas  could  seize  Hegio  in  the  uttermost  [)arts  of  the  Ro- 
man world.     If  he  could   not  make  good  his  default,  the 

(128) 


-■Ji 


The  Steward  Pimished. 


129 


the 

of 

like 

Ro- 

the 


direst  punishment  was  before  liim.  Tigellinus  would  not 
interpose  in  such  a  case ;  in  fact,  such  a  man  as  Heglo,  when 
in  misfortune,  was  beneath  his  notice.  He  could  only  con- 
clude to  be  guided  by  circumstances,  and  if  his  defalcation 
were  discovered,  make  it  good  as  far  as  their  demands  might 
extend. 

At  last  the  end  came. 

One  morning  Labeo  sent  for  him,  and  he  obeyed  the 
summons.  It  is  a  singular  fact,  that  Hegio,  with  all  his  im- 
pudence, stood  in  very  great  awe  of  Labeo,  and  dreaded 
hira  more  than  any  other  man  on  earth.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
physical  superiority  of  his  master,  his  stature  and  strength, 
his  iron  frame  and  massive  build ;  or  it  may  have  been  his 
stern  Roman  nature,  with  all  its  restless  energy  and  indomi- 
table will.  These  qualities  were  the  very  ones  which  dis- 
tinguished Labeo,  and  were  feared  by  the  Syrian.  Or  it 
may  have  been  some  mysterious  presentiment  that  this  man 
would  one  day  be  the  dispenser  of  liis  fate,  —  an  unexplica- 
ble  forecast  of  the  future  ;  a  second  sight,  as  the  saying  is, 
of  things  yet  to  be.  Whatever  the  cause  may  have  been, 
Hegio  had  this  awe  of  Labeo ;  and  in  their  interviews  he 
never,  in  all  his  life,  had  looked  his  master  fairly  in  the  face  ; 
but  usually  on  such  occasions  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
ground,  and  owned  the  influence  of  a  stronger  nature. 

When  he  appeared,  he  found  Labeo  stern  and  severe. 
All  was  known,  for  Cineas  had  told  hira  all.  Hegio  soon 
saw  that  there  was  no  hope.  By  some  means  or  other,  un- 
known to  himself,  Labeo  had  discovered  the  full  extent  of  the 
deficit. 

Hegio  at  once  resolved  to  yield.  He  did  not  see  how  he 
could  do  otherwise.  The  position  of  Labeo  rendered  a  con- 
flict with  him  impossible  ;  and  he  had  resolved,  if  the  worst 
came  to  the  worst,  to  sacrifice  everything,  for  he  well  knew 
that  no  other  course  was  possible. 

So  when  Labeo  presented  to  him  the  statement  of  his  af- 
fairs, and  questioned  him  as  to  his  disposal  of  various  moneys 


1-- 


130 


77/c  Stczvard  Punished. 


Hoffio  said  tliat  he  liad  used  his  revenues  for  the  benefit  of 
the  estate.  The  wliole  amount  wliich  Labeo  tliought  a  de- 
ficit was  safe.  His  speculations  had  not  been  fortunate,  but 
tliere  had  been  no  loss.  All  was  secure,  and  was  available 
at  any  moment.  Labeo  dryly  informed  him  that  such  specu- 
lations were  not  what  he  had  wished,  and  that  his  steward 
had  no  business  to  run  any  risk  by  using  his  money  in  such 
a  way.  His  duty  was  to  collect  all  revenues,  and  take  care 
of  them,  not  to  speculate,  or  to  risk  it  in  wild  adventures  in 
Africa. 

To  all  that  Labeo  said  Hegio  simply  responded  that  all 
was  safe  ;  that  he  had  made  no  wild  speculations ;  that  he 
had  only  done  thus  for  the  good  of  his  master,  and  could  ac- 
count for  every  obol.  In  fact,  the  whole  thing  ended  by  the 
repayment  of  the  missing  money,  and  Hegio  left  his  master, 
penniless. 

Penniless,  but  filled  with  thoughts  of  vengeance.  For 
Labeo  dismissed  him ;  sent  him  away  ignominiously ; 
threatened  to  destroy  him  ;  forbade  him  from  ever  coming 
again  into  his  presence  ;  and  all  the  bitter  hate  of  Hegio 
was  roused,  and  he  retired  from  the  estate,  deeming  himself 
a  ruined  man,  and  swearing  within  himself  to  wreak  some 
revenge  for  all  this  if  ever  the  fates  should  give  him  the 
power. 

So  Hegio  was  got  rid  of. 

On  the  day  when  this  occurred  Carbo  paid  a  visit  to  the 
house  of  Labeo.     He  heard  of  the  event. 

"  So  your  scoundrel  has  gone.  Well,  let  him  go,"  said 
he  ;  "  let  him  go  and  join  his  fortunes  with  those  of  Ti- 
gellinus.  He  will  make  a  better  employer  than  your  noble 
Labeo.  Oh,  these  Syrians  !  these  Syrians  !  the  city  is  full 
of  them !  All  Syria  has  come  to  Rome,  and  brought  here 
their  language  and  manners  and  customs,  their  drums  and 
dancing  girls.  This  is  the  curse  of  Rome.  Am  I  not  right 
in  flying  from  these  ?  Ought  I  to  live  in  Rome  when  men 
like  Hegio  may  have  a  higher  place  than  I  at  the  table,  and 


a 


w 


'"■'■  ■■"   '  ■" 


The  Steward  Punisf^d. 


131 


enjoy  the  favor  of  the  great  ?  Men  like  this  can  succeed 
there.  They  flatter,  tliey  favor,  they  worm  themselves  into 
the  confidence  of  great  houses,  they  control  their  affairs  and 
look   down  with  contempt  upon  honest,  old-fashioned   Ro- 


mans." 


"  It  must  have  taken  all  that  he  had  in  the  world  to  make 
up  that  deficiency,"  said  Cineas.  "  He  can  have  nothing 
left." 

"  Oh,  he  has  plenty  —  plenty.  The  rogue  has  not  spec- 
ulatc'd  for  nothing.  And  suppose  he  is  poor,  he  can  soon 
grow  rich  again.  He  will  insinuate  himself  into  the  confi- 
dence of  some  one  else.  These  are  the  men  who  gain 
power  and  influence  now.  Rome  is  no  place  for  honest 
men,  or  for  poor  men  if  they  are  honest.  All  poor  Romans 
ought  to  emigrate.  But  fortunately  all  the  world  is  not  in 
Rome.  There  are  plenty  of  places  where  the  old-fashioned 
simplicity  may  still  be  found.  There's  Pra;neste  and  Gabii 
and  Tibur,  where  no  one  need  be  afraid  of  their  houses 
tunihling  down  or  burning  up.  But  one  lives  in  Rome  at 
tlie  risk  of  his  life.  Why,  a  great  part  of  the  city  is 
only  kept  up  by  props.  The  scoundrel  overseer  orders 
some  dangerous  gap  in  the  wall  of  a  house  to  be  care- 
lessly plastered  up  and  goes  his  way.  The  next  day 
down  tumbles  the  crazy  old  edifice  and  crushes  the  family. 
Tliink  of  the  fires  at  night.  I  believe  Rome  will  all  be 
burned  up  some  day.  I  wonder  how  it  has  escaped  so  long. 
But  now  things  have  come  to  such  a  pass  that  I  sometimes 
look  toward  the  city  and  see  a  dozen  houses  burning  almost 
every  night  in  as  many  different  localities.  This  don't  do  for 
u  poor  man,  for  he  loses  his  all.  It's  very  well  for  a  rich 
one,  though.  Let  some  rich  man  burn  up  his  house,  and  the 
next  day  all  his  friends  send  him  rare  presents,  —  statues, 
vases,  pictures,  ornaments  of  gold  and  silver,  books,  and  even 
money.  Your  rich  man  gains  bettei-  things  than  those 
which  he  lost ;  but  everybody  understands  the  trick.     When 


132 


The  Steward  Punished. 


1,1    :)l' 


Rome  is  burned  up,  it  will  be  done  by  rich  men.     I  only 
hope  they  muy  all  be  burned  out  together. 

"  There's  no  government  in  Rome.  A  poor  man  goes  out 
after  dark  at  the  risk  of  his  life.  Then,  windows  are  thrown 
open  as  he  goes  along,  and  ponderous  fragments  of  crockery 
are  pitched  out  into  the  street.  I  always  feel  thankful  when 
I  find  that  nothing  more  than  the  contents  of  these  vessels 
are  thrown  down.  But  that  is  nothing.  One's  life  is  in 
danger  now  from  far  more  serious  causes.  The  city  at  night 
is  given  up  to  bands  of  miscreants,  who  roam  the  streets 
drunken  and  (juarrelsome.  If  they  see  a  very  rich  man,  with 
a  long  train  of  attendants,  they  know  enough  to  keep  away 
from  him  ;  but  if  they  meet  a  poor  man  unattended,  then 
they  fall  on  him,  and  all  that  he  can  ask  or  pray  for  is  that 
he  may  be  allowed  to  get  home  with  one  or  two  teeth  left  in 
his  head.  This  thing  is  worse  now  than  ever.  The  young 
men  make  a  business  of  it.  Such  an  one  feels  miserable  un- 
less he  has  knocked  somebody  down ;  he  can't  sleep  at  night 
for  grief.  The  greatest  men  are  the  worst ;  and  I  am  not 
afraid  to  say  that  the  worst  one  of  all  is  Caisar." 

"  Ca3sar !  "  said  Cineas.  '•  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  he 
roams  the  streets,  and  knocks  people  down  ?  " 

"  Can  anything  that  Caesar  does  be  surprising  ?  "  returned 
Carbo,  with  a  world  of  bitterness  in  his  tone.  "Is  any 
crime,  any  infamy,  too  great  ?  But  it  is  not  safe  to  begin 
to  speak  on  such  a  subject.  Rome  has  a  ruler,  at  last,  wor- 
thy of  it.  But  this  is  a  thing  that  cannot  endure  forever. 
Julius  had  his  Brutus ;  Caius  his  Chairea  ;  Nero  will  find 
his  fate  in  some  one  whom  the  gods  will  send." 

Carbo  was  venturing  upon  dangerous  ground;  but  he 
prided  himself  on  his  freedom  of  speech.  He  assailed 
most  vehemently  the  character  of  Nero,  told  all  the  stories 
of  his  unspeakable  crimes,  and  denounced  vengeance  on  his 
head.  It  was  with  some  relief  that  Cineas  saw  him  go ;  for 
he  feared  that  some  of  the  servants  of  the  house  might 
overhear  the  furious  old  man. 


UiAti 


XII. 


THE  AMPHITHEATRE. 

^ARCUS  liad  never  been  at  the  amphitheatre,  and 
his  father  determined  to  give  him  what  he  thought 
would  be  a  great  amusement.  So  one  day  he 
took  him  there.  It  was  before  the  days  of  the 
famous  Coliseum  ;  but  this  edifice  was  of  colossal 
size,  though  it  did  not  possess  the  grandeur  of  its 
successor. 

As  they  entered  and  took  their  seats,  a  wonderful  scene 
presented  itself.  All  around  were  the  numerous  seats, 
filled  with  myriads  of  human  beings,  of  all  ranks  and  ages. 
On  the  lower  seats  were  the  better  class  of  the  population, 
while  the  populace  were  further  away.  Upon  a  raised  seat 
at  one  extremity  was  the  emperor. 

Several  fights  had  already  taken  place,  and,  as  they  en- 
tered, there  was  a  short  pause.  Soon  the  fights  were  re- 
sumed. Some  hand-to-hand  combats  took  place,  with 
various  weapons.  In  the  first  one,  the  fight  was  ended  by 
one  of  the  combatants  striking  another  to  the  heart.  Marcus 
saw  the  blood  spouting  forth ;  he  saw  the  man  fall  dead ;  he 
heard  the  roar  of  acclamation  go  up  all  around  him. 
He  hid  his  face  against  his  father's  arm,  and  shuddered. 
"  Father,  I  want  to  go  home." 

He  gasped  out  this,  in  scarce  audible  tones,  as  his  father 
bent  down  to  ask  him  what  was  the  matter. 
"  Wiiy  ?     Are  you  sick,  dear  boy  ?  " 
"  Yes ;  I  cannot  look  on  and  see  men  killed." 
"  Oh,  is  that  all  ?  "  said  Labeo,  with  a  feeling  of  relief. 
12  (183) 


Ti  I' 


11! 


134 


The  Amphitheatre. 


"  Never  mind.  You'll  soon  grow  accustonKMl  to  it.  He- 
member  you  said  you  were  going  to  be  a  brave  soldier.  80 
you  vc\\\^i  begin  now  to  see  men  fighting  and  killing  one 
another.     You  are  a  Roman." 

Marcus  shuddered,  and  clung  more  closely  to  his  father. 

"  Come,  dear  boy,  look  up.     They  are  fighting." 

Marcus  summoned  up  all  his  childish  resolution,  and 
forced  himself  to  look  again  upon  the  scene.  lint  the  sight 
of  the  struggling  men,  covered  with  blood  and  dust,  and 
panting  and  howling  in  the  rage  of  the  fight,  was  too  much 
for  him.  Again  he  shivered  with  horror,  and  buried  his 
face  in  his  father's  breast. 

"  I  cannot !     Oh,  I  cannot !  "  he  sobbed. 

"  Come,  my  own  boy,  I  know  you  are  not  a  coward,"  said 
Labeo,  after  a  long  pause.  "  Come,  be  a  Roman  boy ! 
See,  all  t)ie  men  have  gone  away,  and  they  are  going  to 
bring  forward  the  wild  beasts.  Come.  Try  to  look  at 
this." 

Again  ISIarcus  raised  his  face,  and  seemed  to  tear  it  away 
from  its  shelter,  and  force  his  eyes,  with  all  his  strength,  to 
survey  the  scene. 

He  saw  the  arena,  with  only  one  man  upon  it.  This 
man  stood  in  the  centre,  with  his  face  toward  them,  armed 
only  with  a  short  sword.  He  was  tall,  broad-shouldered, 
and  powerfully  built.  His  magnificent  frame  showed  a 
splendid  muscular  development.  He  had  light  hair,  which 
was  long,  and  hung  down  in  thick  masses.  His  face  was 
stern  and  bold,  and,  as  he  looked  around  upon  the  specta- 
tors, his  whole  manner  indicated  a  calm  and  lordly  indif- 
ference. 

"lean  tell  you  all  about  him,"  said  Labeo,  thinking  to 
divert  his  boy's  feelings  from  that  horror  which  had  so 
overwhelmed  him.  "  I  can  tell  you  all  about  him.  He  is 
a  Briton.  He  was  captured  by  our  soldiers,  and  sent  here 
among  the  prisoners.     He   has  been   in  training  for  some 


III 


i.i>_ 


f!VI 


The  Amphitheatre, 


135 


litno,  Mini  fill  lIoiiK'  is  excited  about  liim.  He  promises  to 
bo  a  fine  jxladiator." 

Labeo  was  hen;  iiitcrniptod  by  a  loud  roar,  which  camo 
from  tlie  vivarium,  win  re  the  wild  beasts  were  confined. 
Labeo  expected  that  Marcus  woidd  bo  terrified  by  this ; 
but,  to  his  surprise,  the  boy  jumped  to  his  feet,  with  fjlisten- 
ing  eyes,  and,  in  eager  excitement,  looked  to  see  where  it 
caine  from. 

Roar  followed  roar. 

"  Are  you  not  afraid  ?  "  asked  Labeo. 

Marcus  did  not  hear  him.  Labeo  did  not  understand  the 
(lolioate  sensitiveness  of  his  son.  It  was  the  sight  of  human 
blood,  —  the  death  of  men,  —  that  horrified  him. 

Soon  iron  gratings  were  flung  open,  and  a  tiger  bounded 
forth.  He  had  not  had  any  food  for  several  days,  and  his 
ferocity  was  terrific.  He  stood,  for  a  moment,  with  glaring 
eyes,  lashing  his  sides.     Then  he  saw  the  Briton. 

He  uttered  a  savage  growl. 

The  Briton  eyed  him  calmly.  The  tiger,  with  a  wild 
bound,  leaped  toward  him.  Finally,  he  crouched,  and  then, 
with  a  tremendous  s])ring,  leaped  directly  at  him. 

But  the  Briton  was  prepared.  Leaping  nimbly  to  one 
side,  he  struck  a  short,  sharp  blow.  It  was  fatal.  The 
huge  beast  gave  a  frightful  howl,  and,  with  a  convulsive 
spasm,  fell  dead  upon  the  sand. 

A  loud  roar  of  applause  rose  like  a  thunder-peal,  from 
the  vast  assembly.  Maicus  shouted  with  the  rest,  and 
clapped  his  hands. 

"  My  own  brave  boy ! "  said  Labeo,  proudly.  "  I  knew 
you  would  like  it  at  last." 

■'Yes;  but,  O  father,  not  where  men  are  killed!  .  It  is 
too  fearful." 

"  Wait  and  see,"  said  Labeo. 

The  carcass  of  the  tiger  was  drawn  away,  and  again  the 
creak  of  a  grating,  as  it  swung  apart,  attracted  attention. 
This  time  it  was  a  lion.     He  came  forth  slowly,  and  looked 


136 


The  Amphitheatre, 


li 


nil  around  n|)oii  tlu;  scene,  as  if  in  surprise.  He  was  the 
largest  of  Ills  .sjxM'ies,  —  a  giant  in  size,  —  and  had  long  been 
preserved  for  soinc^  superior  antagonist.  He  seemed  capa- 
ble of  encountering  two  animals  like  tiie  tiger  that  had 
preceded  him.     lieside  him,  the   Briton  looked  like  a  child. 

The  lion  had  fasted  long;  b;  he  showed  no  fury  like 
that  of  the  tiger.  He  walked  across  the  arena,  and  com- 
pletely around  it,  in  a  kind  of  trot,  as  though  searching  for 
escape.  Finding  every  side  closed,  he  finally  retreated  to 
the  centre,  and,  putting  his  mouth  close  to  the  ground,  he 
uttered  a  roar  so  deep,  so  loud,  and  so  long,  that  the  whole 
amphitheatre  vibrat-^d  at  the  sound. 

The  Briton  did  not  move.  Not  a  muscle  of  his  face 
changed.  He  carried  his  head  erect,  with  a  watcliful  ex- 
pression, and  held  his  sword  ready.  At  length,  the  lion 
turned  full  upon  him,  and  the  wild  beast  and  the  man  stood 
face  to  face,  eying  one  another.  But  the  calm  gaze  of  the 
man  seemed  to  give  the  animal  discomfort,  and  fill  him  with 
wrath.  He  started  back,  with  his  hair  and  tail  erect ;  and, 
tossing  his  mane,  he  crouched  for  the  dreadful  spring.  The 
vast  multitude  sat  spellbound.  Here,  indeed,  was  a  sight 
Buch  as  might  not  be  often  seen.  The  dark  form  of  the 
lion  darted  forward ;  but  again  the  gladiator,  with  his 
former  manoeuvre,  leaped  aside  and  struck.  This  time, 
however,  his  sword  struck  a  rib.  It  fell  from  his  hand. 
The  lion  was  slightly  wounded ;  but  the  blow  only  served 
to  rouse  his  fury  to  the  highest  point. 

Yet,  in  that  awful  moment,  the  Briton  lost  not  one  jot  of 
his  coolness.  Perfectly  unarmed,  he  stood  before  the  beast, 
waiting  the  attack.  Again  and  again  the  lion  sprung ;  but 
each  time  he  was  evaded  by  the  nimble  gladiator,  who,  by 
his  own  adroit  movements,  contrived  to  reach  the  spot 
where  hi::^  weapon  lay,  and  gain  possession  of  it.  Armed 
wich  his  trusty  sword,  he  now  waited  for  the  final  spring. 
The  lion  came  down  as  before;  but  this  time  the  Briton's 
aim  was  true.     The  sword  pierced  his  heart.     The  enor- 


The  Aniphilhcatrc, 


137 


mous  beast  fell,  writhin^^  in  |)iun.  Ri,«in;;  n<];ain  to  his  feet, 
he  ran  ac  s  the  arena,  and,  with  a  hist  roar,  he  fell  dead 
hy  the  bars  at  which  he  had  entered. 

But,  thou^^h  victorious,  these  elforts  had  told  upon  the  glad- 
iator. He  lay  down,  restinj^  upon  his  arm  and  looking  upon 
tlie  ground.  His  heavy  panting  could  be  perceived  from 
the  seats  above.  For  the  lion  had  allowed  him  .scarce  a 
breathing  space  in  that  dread  encounter,  and  he  was  now 
itterly  exhausted. 

Ihit  the  Romans  never  knew  mercy.  The  attcnidants 
vnnie  forward,  and  among  them  was  a  man  armed  with  a 
helmet  and  sword.  They  threw  a  net  and  trident  to  the 
Briton,  and  left  him  to  a  new  opponent. 

This  was  the  armed  gladiator.  He  was  an  African,  as 
robust  as  the  Briton,  and  of  equal  agility.  There  was  no 
pity,  no  mercy,  no  such  sentiment,  even,  as  a  sense  of  fair 
play,  among  a  [)eople  who  could  thus  consent  to  match  in 
battle  a  man  wearied  with  two  most  fatiguing  contests  and 
one  who  was  altogether  fresh. 

The  Briton  slowly  and  wearily  rose  to  his  feet,  and  took 
the  net  and  trident.  A  third  battle  was  not  expected,  and 
he  seemed  to  lose  spirit.  He  made  an  effort,  however,  and 
threw  the  net  at  his  adversary.  It  missed.  The  Briton 
then  ran,  and  the  African  followed.  It  was  one  of  the  most 
common  contests  of  the  arena;  and,  had  the  Briton  been 
fresh,  he  might  have  con(|uered.  But  he  ran  slowly,  trying 
to  rearrange  the  net  for  another  throw.  The  African,  fresh 
and  agile,  gained  on  him  at  every  step.  At  last  the  Briton 
turned,  and  raised  his  net  to  throw.  The  next  moment  the 
African  plunged  his  sword  into  his  side.     The  Briton  fell. 

At  that  stroke  a  loud,  wild  shriek  arose.  It  came  from 
Marcus.     He  flung  himself  into  his  father's  arms. 

"  Oh,  save  him !  save  him !  "  he  gasped.  "  Get  him 
away !  save  him  !  " 

Labeo  tried  to  soothe  him,  but  in  vain.     The    boy   re- 
pelled his  caresses,  with  a  passion  of  sorrow,  and  only  cried, 
12* 


IP 


■'if, 


'38 


The  Affiphithealre, 


)'  ; 


"  Save  him ! "  as  before.  So  Labeo  took  Marcus  in  liis 
arms,  r:nd  left  the  place,  with  the  intention  of  seeing  if 
anything  could  be  done. 

Meanwhile,  the  Briton  lay  Avhere  he  had  fallen  ;  the 
African  standing  over  him.  It  was  a  case  where  the  spec- 
tators should  decide  the  fate  of  the  vanquished.  The  Af- 
rican looked  up.  The  Briton,  too,  after  a  few  minutes, 
struggled  up,  and  leaned  on  his  arm,  with  his  drooped  head 
gradually  sinking  down  again, 

"  And  from  his  side  the  last  drops  ebbing  slow." 

A  roar  of  acclamation  had  greeted  the  victory  of  the 
African,  and  some  time  elapsed  before  it  subsided.  With 
these  inhuman  spectators  rested  the  fate  of  a  brave  man. 
It  was  soon  decided.  These  spectators  had  conceived  a 
high  opinion  of  the  Briton.  Long  had  it  been  since  they 
had  seen  such  a  victory  over  wild  beasts  as  he  had  shown 
them.  This  lion  which  he  had  killed  had  been  the  terror 
of  all  the  gladiators.  They  were  not  willing  to  lose  so  good 
a  fighter.  He  should  live ;  he  should  afford  them  more 
pleasure.  They  would  let  him  recover  from  his  wound  if 
he  could.  So,  as  the  African  looked  up,  he  saw  the  signal 
from  all  their  hands,  which  meant  life.  He  turned  care- 
lessly away,  and  the  attendants,  coming  forward,  raised  the 
wounded  man,  and  cai'ried  him  off. 

Labeo  himself  had  been  disgusted  by  the  last  fight.  His 
life  had  been  passed  to  a  great  extent  in  other  countries ; 
and,  though  he  was  ftimiliar  enough  with  the  amphitheatre, 
yet  he  had  not  been  able  to  become  a  regular  attendant. 
He  had  not  acquired  the  real  cold-blooded  cruelty  which 
distinguished  the  common  spectator.  He  felt  interested  in 
the  Briton,  and  determined  to  do  for  him  what  he  could. 

Followed  by  Marcus,  he  went  along  the  lower  corridors, 
till  he  came  to  the  gladiators'  quarters.  As  he  entered,  he 
saw  a  confused  scene.  Gladiators  were  all  around,  laugh- 
ing, quarrelling,  or  drinking  wine.     He  took  his  boy  in  his 


liiHiiB!:piil 


The  Amphitheatre. 


139 


arms,  and  asked  some  men  near  him  where  the  Briton  was. 
He  did  not  know  how  the  scene  in  the  arena  had  ended ; 
but  he  tliought  that  he  might  have  been  spared,  since  he 
was  too  good  to  be  thrown  away.  The  men,  whom  he  spoke 
to,  pointed  carelessly  to  the  other  corner  of  the  apartment, 
lilaking  a  way  through  the  crowd,  he  went  there,  and  found 
the  object  of  his  search. 

He  had  been  rudely  thrown  on  the  ground,  in  a  corner, 
so  as  to  be  out  of  the  way,  and  was  left  to  himself.  No  one 
cared  for  him,  or  attempted  to  stanch  his  wounds.  As 
Marcus  caught  sight  of  aim  in  his  misery,  he  uttered  a  long 
low  cry.  He  made  his  father  put  him  down,  and  caught 
the  gladiator's  hand. 

"0  father,  how  he  suffers!  "Will  he  die?  Wont  you 
save  him  ?  How  cruel  to  kill  him !  Save  him,  my  dearest 
father  !  Oh,  see,  how  he  bleeds,  and  how  pale  he  is !  And 
his  poor  eyes  are  closed  !  " 

The  gladiator  half  opened  his  eyes ;  and,  amid  his  agony, 
there  was  an  expression  of  faint  surprise  that  any  one 
should  think  of  him. 

"0  father,"  said  Marcus,  with  eyes  filled  with  tears, 
"  will  you  take  him  away  ?  You  will,  for  your  little  boy. 
If  you  love  me,  father  dearest,  take  him  away.  See,  how 
he  suffers ! " 

The  whole  manner  of  his  son  —  his  tears,  his  eager  so- 
licitude, and  his  persistence  —  was  more  than  Labeo  could 
resist.  Besides,  though  a  Roman  soldier,  and  familiar  with 
scenes  of  blood,  there  was  something  in  this  sight  which 
shocked  his  sense  of  justice. 

So  he  at  once  called  some  of  the  guards  and  ordered  them 
to  remove  the  Briton.  His  rank  enforced  obedience ;  and 
the  men  carried  the  wounded  gladiator  away  to  another 
apartment  where  they  laid  him  on  some  straw. 

"  Now,  send  some  one  here  to  attend  to  his  wounds,"  said 
Labeo. 


'^m 


I 


140 


T/tc  Amphitheatre, 


IKi 


An  attendant  soon  came,  who  examined  the  wound,  and 
dressed  it  after  a  rougli  fashion. 

"  Father,"  said  Marcus,  "  you  shall  not  leave  him  here." 

"  What  ?     Why,  what  can  I  do  ?  " 

"  You  must  take  him  away." 

«  Away  ?     Where  to  ?  " 

"  Home." 

"  What  could  I  do  with  a  gladiator,  dear  boy  ?  I  don't 
want  him  to  fight  for  me." 

"  Oh,  no,  —  I  want  him.  Give  him  to  me,  my  dearest 
father.     I  want  to  save  his  life,  and  have  him  for  my  own." 

"Well  —  you  have  strange  fancies,"  murmured  Labeo, 
"  but  I  suppose  I  must  do  what  you  say." 

"  Look  —  he  sees  us  —  he  knows  that  we  are  his  friends," 
cried  Marcus,  eagerly. 

The  gladiator  half-opened  his  eyes,  and  seemed  to  have 
some  dim  perce|)tion  of  the  truth.  He  saw  the  sweet  child- 
face  with  the  glory  of  its  expression  of  love  and  pity;  the 
eyes  beaming  with  tender  interest  and  fixed  on  his.  He 
looked  at  the  face  in  wonder.  It  seemed  like  a  new  idea. 
He  was  bewildered. 

Marcus  took  his  hand  again. 

"  Father,  dear  father,  let  him  be  mine.  You  will  —  wont 
you  ?  You  will  save  him  and  give  him  to  me  —  wont  you  ? 
—  and  bring  him  home  with  us  ?  " 

"  Why,  not  now,"  said  Labeo,  hesitatingly. 

"  Well,  when  will  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  must  see  some  people  first  and  ask,  —  and  then, 
dear  boy,  I  will  bring  him  out  for  you." 

"  My  dearest  father,  I  knew  you  would.  And  he  shall  be 
treated  well,"  said  Marcus,  "  and  recover  from  this  cruel 
wound." 

All  this  time  Marcus  had  held  the  gladiator's  hand  in  both 
his,  and  the  wounded  man  lay  looking  at  him.  By  and  by 
the  expression  of  bewilderment  gave  way  to  one  of  deep  de- 
votion.    He  seemed  to  understand  what  it  meant.     He  dis- 


The  Amphitheatre. 


141 


covered  that  this  bright,  beautiful  being  was  interceding 
for  his  life,  and  trying  to  save  him  from  misery.  Feebly 
and  with  a  slow  effort  he  drew  the  delicate  hand  of  Marcus 
upward  and  held  it  for  a  moment  against  his  lips.  Then  a 
big  tear  rolled  from  each  eye  and  fell  down  his  face. 

"  0  father,"  said  Marcus,  "  he  knows  that  I  am  sorry  for 
him.  See,  he  has  kissed  my  hand.  When  will  you  take  him 
out  of  this  hideous  place  ?  " 

"  Not  to-day,"  said  Labeo,  "  but  I  will  speak  to  them  and 
make  them  treat  him  kindly  ;  and  then  when  he  gets  a  little 
stronger  I  will  have  him  brought  out." 

Tiiis  appeared  to  satisfy  Marcus.  His  father  then  called 
the  attendant  who  had  di-essed  the  wounds  of  the  Briton,  and, 
putting  some  money  in  his  hand,  gave  directions  for  the  care 
of  the  wounded  man,  saying  at  the  same  time  that  he  in- 
tended to  have  him  removed  in  a  few  days  if  he  recovered. 
The  attendant  thought  tliat  he  might  recover,  and  prom- 
ised to  follow  out  all  Labeo's  directions. 

After  this,  the  father  and  son  took  their  departure. 
,  "  Dear  father,"  said  Marcus,  as  they  were  leaving,  "  what 
makes  the  peojde  so  cruel  ?  They  love  to  see  blood.  All 
this  breaks  my  heart.  I  will  never  come  here  again.  And 
I  want  so  much  to  get  that  poor  man  out  home.  How  he 
suffered !  How  cruel  it  was  !  and  when  he  had  been  so 
hrave,  too !  Oh,  how  I  hope  he  will  get  well  soon.  But 
what  makes  the  people  so  cruel  ?  " 

"  Oh,  they  are  not  cruel,"  said  Labeo,  trying  to  turn  it  off. 
"  It  is  their  fashion.  They  have  always  been  so.  You  will 
loarn  to  love  it  as  you  grow  older." 

"  Never,"  said  INIarcus,  with  a  shudder,  and  then,  after  a 
pause,  he  said  in  low,  reproachful  tones,  "  Do  you  want  me 
to  loarn  to  be  so  cruel,  dearest  father  ?  " 

Labeo  looked  puzzled.     At  last  he  said,  — 

"  Dear  boy,  when  you  get  to  be  a  soldier,  you  will  feel 
(liffcrcntly." 

"But  ought  a  soldier  to  be  cruel?     You  arc  not  a  cruel 


fl 


J.2  The  Amphitheatre. 

man  You  would  not  hurt  a  poor  horse;  and  I  never 
saw  you  treat  a  man  badly.  I  will  be  like  you  ;  and  I  will 
never  be  cruel.  I  want  to  be  merciful.  That  is  what  nurse 
taught  me.     She  says,  '  Blessed  are  the  merciful,  for  they 

shall  obtain  mercy.' "  ,  ^   ,       .,  mv.  .  • 

" «  Blessed  are  the  merciful,' "  repeated  Labeo.  That  is  a 
wise  saying.  Yes,  dear  boy,  be  as  you  like.  You  have  a 
good,  noble  heart ;  and  I  will  not  bring  you  here  agam  until 
you  want  to  come." 


XIII. 


f 


CINEAS  AND  HELENA. 

ARCUS  gave  his  father  no  rest  until  he  had  brought 
the  gladiator  out  to  his  villa.  The  wound  was  se- 
vere, but  the  strong  constitution  of  the  hardy  Briton 
proved  superior  to  the  shock,  and  he  rapidly  re- 
covered. Marcus  attached  himself  to  him,  and  the 
gladiator  in  return  seemed  to  feel  for  this  pure  boy 
a  sentiment  which  amounted  to  adoration.  He 
could  only  speak  a  few  broken  words  of  Latin,  so  Marcu3 
tried  to  teach  it  to  him. 

The  Briton  said  that  his  name  was  Galdus,  and  that  he 
had  been  a  chief  of  the  Trinobantians.  Some  troubles  had 
arisen  about  supplies  of  corn,  and  a  detachment  of  Roman 
soldiers  had  seized  some  from  his  people.  He  resisted,  and 
in  the  fight  that  ensued  the  small  detachment  was  put  to 
flight.  Another  lai-ger  body  of  men  then  came,  and  in  the 
course  of  aifairs  Galdus  was  taken  prisoner.  His  life  was 
spared,  and  he  was  sent  to  Rome.  He  had  been  selected 
for  a  gladiator,  on  account  of  his  warlike  mien  and  powerful 
frame.  Such  was  his  story,  told  in  scarce  intelligible  lan- 
guage, but  with  a  deep  passion  of  hate  for  the  Romans,  that 
was  startling  to  his  childish  companion.  But  Marcus  sym- 
pathized with  Galdus  with  all  his  soul.  Tyranny  and  o()- 
pression  of  all  kinds  were  shot  'ng  to  him,  and  here  stood 
before  him  a  man  who  told  him  a  story  of  wrong  which  he 
had  endured,  that  filled  the  boy  with  vague  desires  to  punish 
somebody.  This  sympathy,  coming  from  such  a  source, 
added  new  strength  to  the  reverence  and  affection  which 

(143) 


144 


Cincas  and  Helena. 


!;  I 


Galdus  felt  for  him,  and  made  him  devote  himself  inces- 
santly to  this  sweet  child.  P's  rufrged,  barbaric  nature 
found  a  strange  charm  in  this  youthful  grace  and  delicacy, 
and  Marcus  stood  before  him  like  a  divinity. 

The  boy  reflected  with  proud  complacency  on  the  fact 
that  he  had  saved  this  heroic  barbarian.  H(;  was  his 
patron.  Whenever  he  was  not  with  his  father,  he  was  with 
Galdus.  The  two  might  be  seen,  at  almost  any  hour  of  tlic 
day,  walking  together,  Galdus  following  Marcus  wherever 
he  led  the  way,  and  often  en  ying  him  lovingly  in  his  arms. 
As  time  went  on  he  told  Marcus  that  he  had  no  relatives  in 
Britain.  All  had  been  slain  in  battle,  and  his  father,  the 
last  survivor,  had  died  in  Camulodunum,  before  he  left 
Britain. 

One  day  nil  Rome  was  startled  by  a  terrible  tragedy.    It 
was  the  murder  of  Pedanius,  who  lived  in  the  villa  adjoin- 
ing Labeo's,  by  one  of  his  own  slaves.     This  man  had  al- 
ways been  noted  for  his  cruelty.     The  first  thing  that  Cineas 
had  seen  when  he  came  to  Labeo's  house  was  the  horrid 
spectacle  of  the  crucified  slaves  at  the  gate  of  Pedanius.     Of 
all  the  Romans,  none  excelled  him  in  cruelty.     This  tragedy 
was  caused  by  an  act  of  gross  injustice.     A  slave  of  his,  who 
had  been  saving  money  for  years,  so  as  to  purchase  his  free- 
dom, and  had   paid  the  larger  part,  found  his  avaricious 
master  unwilling  to  conclude  the  bargain.     He  asked  an  ad- 
ditional sum,  wiiich  with  that  which  had  already  been  paid, 
would  have  made  an  amount  larger  than  was  ever  demanded 
before.     It  would  have  taken  five  years  more  of  labor  to 
pay  it,  and  even  then  there  was  no  certainty  that  he  would 
get  his  liberty.     The  man  fell  into  the  deepest  dejection,  and 
at  length  determined  on  revenge.     In  the  dead  of  night  lie 
stole  into  the  bed-chamber  of  Pedanius  and  stabbed  him. 
Tiie  body  was  found  in  the  morning,  with  the  dagger  yet  in 
the  wound. 

A  thrill  of  horror  was  caused  throughout  the  neighbor- 
hood, and  in  the  city.     It  was  not  alone  the  assassination  or 


Cineas  and  Helena, 


145 


the  consequences  of  tlie  act ;  for  the  law  was,  that  under 
such  circumstances  all  the  slaves  should  suffer  death,  without 
exception.  Now,  as  there  were  four  hundred  slaves  on  the 
estate,  the  prospect  of  such  wholesale  execution  shocked 
even  the  Romans.  The  populace  of  Rome,  filled  with  com- 
passion for  so  many  innocent  men,  opposed  the  execution 
with  such  vehemence  that  it  almost  amounted  to  an  insur- 
rection. Rome  was  filled  with  the  fiei'cest  excitement.  The 
question  was  taken  up  by  the  senate,  and  many  sided  with 
the  people  ;  but  most  who  owned  slaves  themselves,  and  per- 
haps felt  little  confidence  in  their  good-will,  were  in  favor 
of  upholding  the  law  in  all  its  severity.  They  declared  if 
the  law  were  repealed  there  would  be  no  further  safety,  and 
that  the  good  of  the  state  demanded  the  execution  of  all. 

The  number  doomed  to  suffer,  their  age  and  sex,  and  the 
manifest  innocence  of  the  most  of  them,  created  pity  even 
among  the  senate,  but  the  law  was  allowed  to  take  its  course. 
But  the  peoj)le  grew  more  clamorous  than  ever  in  favor  of 
the  slaves.  They  rose  in  arms,  filled  the  city  with  tumult, 
and  stopped  the  execution. 

Labeo  was  one  of  the  party  who  were  in  favor  of  mild 
measures,  and  he  saw  with  horror  the  resolution  of  the  sen- 
ate. But  he  could  do  nothing.  Nero  was  determined  that 
the  law  should  take  its  course.  He  determined  to  enforce  it 
without  mercy.  He  issued  a  proclamation  and  ordered  the 
streets  to  be  filled  with  soldiers,  and  so  the  people  were  kept 
down,  and  the  wretched  slaves  were  all  crucified  amid  the 
horror  of  the  whole  city.  It  is  a  remarkable  thing  that  one 
of  the  senators  actually  wished  to  have  all  the  freedmen  ex- 
ecuted too ;  but  Nero,  in  one  of  those  milder  moods  which 
sometimes  came  upon  him,  refused  to  have  it  done,  and  de- 
cided that  if  it  was  just  to  maintain  the  ancient  laws  in  all 
their  severity,  it  was  unjust  to  exceed  their  rigor. 

This  whole  transaction  threw  a  deep  gloom  over  Labeo's 
house.  There  stood  the  villa  of  Pedanius  ever  in  sight,  and 
ever  reminding  them  of  this  deed  of  sickening  horror.     He- 

13 


H6 


Cincas  and  Helena, 


% 


lena  foiiiifl  that  -he  could  no  longer  live  there  in  peace,  and 
implored  her  hn~1»and  to  go  (o  some  other  place  which  should 
not  be  polluted  tty  such  revolting  aspociatioiis.  Marcus,  too, 
was  most  profoundly  .hock"d.  His;  ke<'n  sense  of  justice 
niude  Ir-  \  feel  vi  st  acutely  the  hov  "ble  crnelty  of  the  exe- 
ention,  and  \<.?  n^'ver  lalked  near  the  boundaries  which  sep- 
arated the  two  c  .ates.  He  always  ke})t  .  .1  the  farther  aide 
of  it,  Jind  never  even  looked  at  the  ill-omened  place  without 
a  shudder.  ]\Tany  things  disturbed  his  gentle  nature  and 
gave  him  a  knowledge  of  the  miscv  and  injustice  that  are 
in  the  world.  The  sufferings  of  the  gladiators,  the  wrongs 
of  Galdus  and  his  countrymen,  and  the  fV-arful  indiscrimi- 
nating  vengeance  taken  on  the  slaves  harassed  his  sensitive 
mind.  Again  he  put  his  oft  reiterated  (juestions,  "  What 
makes  the  Romans  so  cruel  ?  "  —  "  Is  there  no  mercy  at  all 
among  them  ?  "  For  many  days  there  was  a  seriousness  and 
sadness  on  his  face  that  was  quite  new,  and  a  troubled  ex- 
pression that  showed  some  deep  anxiety.  His  delicate  or- 
ganization seemed  crushed  by  the  darkest  problems  of  life 
which  were  imposed  upon  it  too  soon. 

At  such  times  he  would  talk  to  Galdus,  and  tell  him  all 
his  fei  lings,  not  because  Galdus  was  dearer  to  him  than  any 
one  else,  but  because  he  se<'med  more  like  an  inferior.  He 
could  not  talk  with  such  freedom  on  such  subjects  to  his 
father,  or  mother,  or  Cineas.  They,  he  thought,  might  think 
it  all  childish.  But  Galdus  would  not.  Galdus  believed 
all  he  said.  Galdus  looked  up  to  him,  and  revered  him. 
So  he  told  all  his  feelings  to  Galdus,  and  although  Galdus 
did  not  know  the  language  well  enough  to  understand  all, 
yet  he  could  easily  comprehend  the  grand  and  simple  first 
truths  of  right  and  justice  which  Marcus  uttered.  Neither 
had  that  sense  of  right  distorted  by  anything  conventional. 
One  was  a  child,  the  other  a  barbarian,  and  thus  had  one 
common  ground,  in  that  they  were  both  near  to  nature  and 
far  from  art  or  artifice. 

Bui  the  agitation  of  Marcus  was  not   unnoticed  by  his 


the 
had 
whic 
Helf 
HHei 
liiciits 
the  111, 
aTi])t 
TIk 
them 
pathizi 
Christ 
lected 


Cincas  and  Helena. 


147 


parents.  They  thought  that  such  long  and  incessant  brood- 
ing over  one  terrible  theme  would  injure  his  health ;  and 
tills  added  strength  to  Helena's  desire  to  move  away. 

Labeo  was  not  unwilling.  He  had  become  a  pretty  con- 
stant attendant  at  court.  Nero  showed  him  marked  favor, 
always  called  him  Hercules,  and  the  common  opinion  was 
thiit  he  was  destined  to  rise  high  in  position  and  intlucnce. 
All  this  made  him  quite  desirous  of  having  a  house  in  the 
city ;  and  so,  several  months  afterwards,  the  whole  house- 
liuld  came  to  Rome. 

The  change  of  scene  had  a  favorable  effect  on  Marcus. 
The  !:ouse  was  a  noble  edifice,  surrounded  by  gardens,  on 
the  slope  of  the  Esquiline  Hill.  From  its  roof  there  was  a 
eoinmanding  prospect  of  the  city.  Under  the  charge  of 
GaUlus,  Marcus  loved  to  be  taken  through  the  streets,  along 
the  noisy  and  crowded  Suburra,  or  into  the  bustling  busy 
Forum.  He  still  remembered  the  fearful  events  which  had 
so  discomposed  him,  but  less  vividly.  Gradually  other 
things  came  to  interest  him,  and  he  would  talk  to  his  confi- 
dant, Galdus,  about  the  sights  of  the  great  capital. 

By  the  time  that  they  moved  into  Rome,  the  nurse  had  re- 
covered completely,  and  was  as  well  as  ever.  Her  sweet, 
serene  face  once  more  might  be  seen  among  the  women  of 
the  household.  The  numerous  interviews  which  she  had 
liad  with  her  mistress  had  given  rise  to  a  real  friendship,  in 
wliich  the  nurse's  position  as  slave  was  lost  sight  of  by 
Helena.  A  new  bond  was  also  formed  between  them  by 
Ilolena's  Christian  sympathies.  The  lofty  and  pure  senti- 
ments of  the  nurse  enabled  her  to  present  to  her  mistress  in 
the  most  attractive  form  the  divine  doctrines  of  that  manu- 
script which  she  had  obtained. 

The  close  sympathy  betwci  .1  Cineas  and  his  sister  drew 
them  together  constantly.  He  understood  her.  He  sym- 
pathized with  her  in  her  feelings.  Wlien  she  spoke  of  the 
Christian  religion,  he  seemed  eager  to  know  how  it  had  af- 
fected her.     He  said  that  this  stood  before  them  all  as  some- 


148 


Clneas  and  Helena, 


r 


thing  which  possessed  a  wonderful  charm,  and  perhaps  at 
last  it  would  seem  to  be  what  they  wanted.  Yet  although  he 
was  strangely  moved  by  its  doctrines,  he  found  many  diffi- 
culties. 

Helena,  in  speaking  on  this  theme,  found  an  enthusiasm 
which  she  had  not  shown  \jpfore ;  and  they  were  so  much 
alike  that  Cineas  invariably  fell  into  the  same  mood,  and 
sometimes  even  shared  in  her  exultation  at  finding  the 
truth  at  last. 

"  How  I  rejoice,  my  dearest,"  he  said,  "  that  you  have 
found  what  you  desired.  For  my  part,  I  am  more  critical 
than  you.  I  look  at  a  question  on  more  sides.  P(!rhaps  you 
are  right,  but  I  cannot  help  my  nature  ;  besides,  I  have  many 
things  which  I  would  say,  but  I  do  not  wish  to  disturb  that 
peace  of  mind  which  you  have  gained." 

It  was  not  long  before  Helena  let  him  have  the  manu- 
script which  she  had  read  with  such  emotion.  He  accepted 
it  gladly,  and  spent  many  months  over  it,  till  the  words  and 
doctrines  were  all  iamiliar. 

"  I  feel  that  I  am  half  a  Christian,"  said  he,  once  ;  "  and  if 
I  do  not  become  one  altogether,  at  least  I  will  receive  from 
the  Book  ideas  which  I  can  never  lose.  There  are  words 
here  which  I  might  call  divine  ;  and  which  seem  to  convey 
to  me  in  themselves  the  result  and  summing  up  of  wlioie 
systems  of  philosophy. 

"  I  cannot  help  believing  that  this  wonderful  man  was  a 
divine  messenger  sent  by  God  to  that  people  to  teach  them. 
They  did  not  expect  one  like  him  ;  they  looked  for  a  very 
different  one,  as  Isaac  has  often  told  me. 

"  His  life  excites  my  wonder  and  admiration.  I  have  al- 
ways tried  to  think  in  the  true  philosophic  spirit ;  and  have 
sometimes  imagined  what  might  be  the  philosophic  outline  of 
the  life  of  such  a  Being.  I  have  felt  that  he  would  scorn  all 
vulgar  display,  and  would  address  himself  to  the  mind  alone, 
not  to  the  senses.     I  find  here  that  which  is  more  than  I  had 


H 


my 
sou 
from 
in  tj 

since 
tiiat 

WOIv 

them 

bear 

the 


•' 


Cincas  and  Helena. 


149 


imagined  ;  the  real  fillinrr  up  of  my  faint  outline ;  the  solid 
substance  of  that  which  with  mo  was  a  faint  shadow. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  to  think  of  his  miracles  ;  but  if  they 
are  true,  they  are  of  the  kind  which  they  should  be.  They 
nt"<;r  appeal  to  the  vulgar  ap[)robation  ;  they  are  never 
performed  for  effect.  But  they  are  wrought  for  the  good  of 
man,  —  to  heal  the  sick,  or  to  comfort  the  sorrowful.  Tliis 
was  the  true  character  of  Socrates,  and  the  real  nature  of 
his  life,  —  to  go  among  all  classes,  and  to  seek  the  good  of 
tiie  public.  He  neglected  his  own  afftiirs,  and  gave  himself 
up  who'ly  to  the  good  of  his  fellow-men.  Yet  I  must  say 
tluit  I  find  something  more  pathetic  in  this  Jewish  teacher 
than  in  our  Greek  one,  —  more  tender,  more  sympathetic, 
more  divine.  Above  all,  there  is  something  more  positive, 
lie  speaks,  as  the  Book  itself  says,  like  one  who  has  authori- 
ty. He  proclaims  what  he  knows  to  be  the  truth.  Socra- 
tes hints  and  argues,  and  rarely  makes  a  direct  statement. 
He  adopts  a  negative  style  ;  but  the  Jewish  teacher  is  never 
anything  else  than  positive. 

"  For  this  reason,  all  that  he  says  comes  directly  to  the 
heart,  and  to  the  mind.  A  few  words  express  that  which 
Socrates  uses  many  words  even  to  hint  at.  He  gives  also  a 
nobler  view  of  God.  He  tells  us  directly  that  the  Supreme 
One  is  our  Father,  and  feels  positive  love  for  his  creatures. 
There  is  something  that  Socrates  never  says.  I  take  that, 
my  dearest ;  I  >.  'jrace  that ;  I  will  cherish  it  in  my  secret 
soul  as  long  as  I  live ;  and,  if  I  have  learned  nothing  else 
from  your  book,  I  have  at  least  found  this  out,  and  I  rejoice 
in  the  great  doctrine. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  all  the  thoughts  that  have  filled  my  mind 
since  I  read  that  book.  All  my  life  seemed  to  change.  All 
that  I  had  ever  read  seemed  to  recur  to  me  ;  and  the  noblest 
words  of  my  favorite  poets  seemed  to  come  up  and  compare 
themselves  with  these  words,  and  shrink  back  unable  to 
bear  the  comparison.  Most  of  all,  I  thought  of  the  words  of 
the  Prometheus.     How  often  have  I  cited  that  character  as 

13* 


'if 


il 


150 


Cincas  and  Helena. 


the  grandest  conception  of  genius ;  but  I  never  tliought  that 
I  would  ever  read  the  litii!  of  a  real  man  which  carried  in 
itself  all  that  I  most  admire  in  the  Prometheus,  and  more 
also. 

"  When  I  read  of  that  death  of  -^'Tony,  I  recalled  many 
passages  from  that  poem  which  seemed  to  atr<jrd  a  parallel. 
You  know  them  vrell,  for  how  often  we  have  read  and  S11112 
them  together.  How  I  felt  that  I  could  say  to  this  sulfercr, 
in  the  sublime  words  of  that  chorus  :  — 


"  '  I  thrill  to  behold 

Thee,  victhii  doomed  — 

■  •  •  • 

And  all  because  thou 

Didst  overflow,  for  mankind  below, 

With  a  free-souled,  generous  love ! ' 

"  Yes,  there  was  a  repetition  of  all  that  -^schylus  has  pre- 
sented to  us  —  a  Being  who  loves  men,  who  does  good  to 
them,  who  suffers  for  them,  who  endures  the  mysterious  an- 
ger of  the  Supreme.  But  the  Supreme  Being  of  -liEschylus 
is  a  tyrant,  while  here  the  suffering  One  always  speaks  of 
his  love. 

"  When  I  see  him  crushed  in  the  garden,  I  recall  the 
mourning  cry  of  Prometheus :  — 

"  '  Because  I  gave 
Honors  to  mortals,  I  have  yoked  my  soul 
To  this  compelling  fate  '  — 

"  But  I  see  in  this  Jewish  teacher  a  spirit  infinitely  more 
divine ;  so  much  so  that  comparison  becomes  impossible, 
and  when  the  words  of  Prometheus  are  suggested,  furtlier 
thought  shows  that  the  resemblance  is  only  partial.  Yet 
there  is  much  which  one  may  recall.  When  the  victim  is 
nailed  to  the  cross,  his  enemies  rail  on  him,  and  sneer  at  him, 
and  bring  to  mind  the  words  of  Kratos  to  Prometheus :  — 

"  '  Having  spoiled  the  gpds 
Of  honors,  crown  withal  thy  mortal  men 


Cine  as  and  Helena. 

Who  Ii>«i  a  whole  day  out.    Whj-,  ho-?  could  they 
Draw  off  from  thee  one  shiglo  of  thy  griefs?' 


151 


"This  is  the  Hjiine  scorn  whicii  I  sc  ^  ropmied  in  the  words 
•Ho  saved  otlicis,  hiiu  "If  ho  r'aniiot  snv(>.' 

"And  so,  too,  wlicii  I  SCO  tli's  innocent  victim,  tliis  holy 
and  divine  bcin;.',  in  his  aj^ony,  I  utter  tlie  words  of  those 
who  gazed  on  Pronietiicus :  — 

"'I  behold  thee,  Promethpiis  —  yet  now,  —  yet  now; 
A  terrible  cloud,  whose  ruin  is  teiirs, 
Sweeps  over  mine  eyes  that  witness  how 

Tliy  body  appears 
Hung  a  waste  on  the  rock  in  infrangible  chains.' 

"  And  as  they  say  again  :  — 

"  '  I  moan  thy  fate,  I  moan  for  thee, 
Prometheus !     From  my  restless  eyes, 
Drop  by  drop,  intermittently 
A  trickling  stream  of  tears  supplies 
My  cheeks  all  wet  from  fountains  free.' 

"  Yes,  both  suffer  from  love  to  man  :  — 

"  *  Such  is  thy  woe  for  thy  deep  love  to  man  '  — 

"  But  I  see  tlie  great  difference  between  the  teachings  of 
the  two  books,  the  Grecian  poem  and  the  Jewish  story. 
One  makes  the  Supreme  a  cruel  tyrant,  the  other  a  tender 
and  loving  father ;  the  former  creates  fear,  the  latter  awakens 
love. 

"  Most  of  all,  my  sister,  have  I  felt  the  deep  tragic  nature 
of  those  events  which  accompanied  the  death  of  this  myste- 
rious man.  The  darkening  of  the  heavens,  the  earthquake, 
and  all  the  other  events,  which  showed  that  nature  itself 
sympathized.  So,  in  Prometheus,  natnre  sympathizes,  and 
all  the  races  of  mankind  join  in  one  universal  lamentation :  — 


"  '  All  the  land  is  moaning 
With  a  roirmnred  plaint  to-day. 


liiH 


152 


Cineas  and  Helena, 

All  the  mortal  nations 
Having  habitations 
Near  the  holy  Asia 


Now  are  groaning  in  the  groaning 

Of  thy  deep-voiced  grief. 
Mourn  the  virgins  habitant 

Of  the  Colchean  land, 
Who  with  white,  calm  bosoms  stand 

In  the  battle's  roar, -■ 
Mourn  the  Scythian  tribes  that  haunt 
The  verge  of  earth,  Ma^otis'  shore,  — 
And  Arabia's  battle  crown. 
And  dwellers  in  the  lofty  town, 
Mount  Caucasus  sublimely  nears,  — 
An  iron  squadron,  thundering  down 

With  the  sharp-prowed  spears.' 

"You  know  how  the  'master'  was  always  accustomed 
to  say  that  the  most  divine  thi"g  in  the  attitude  of  Socrates 
was  when  he  forgave  his  enemies.  Tiiis,  too,  I  always  con- 
sidered in  the  same  way.  I  took  to  myself  the  majestic,  the 
godlike  nature  of  the  man,  who  could  rise  to  such  tran- 
scendent superiority  to  human  weakness,  as  to  turn  to  those 
who  even  then  were  burning  to  take  vengeance  on  them,  and 
tell  them  to  their  faces  that  he  forgave  them.  This  you  know 
well,  for  you,  too,  have  taken  part  in  the  same  instructions,  and 
have  learned  to  look  on  this  with  the  eyes  of  tlie  '  master.' 
You  may  imagine,  then,  how  my  whole  being  thrilled  as  I 
came  to  that  part  of  the  sufferings  of  this  wonderful  man, 
where  he  prays  to  God  for  forgiveness  to  his  enemies. 
That  is  the  crowning  glory  of  his  sublime  life.  Under  such 
circumstances  of  physical  anguish,  it  would  not  have  been 
susprising  if  something  like  vindictiveness  had  appeared,  and 
if  a  prayer  had  been  wrung  out  from  him  in  that  great  agony 
which  invoked  vengeance  on  his  cruel  enemies.  Yet  there 
was  an  utter  absence  of  this  ;  there  was  more,  —  a  perpetual 
presence  of  that  same  love  for  man  which  had  marked  his 
life,  and  he  excused  them  by  saying  that  they  knew  not  what 
they  were  doing." 


1  wv 


mi ! 


Cincas  and  Helena. 


153 


Such  was  the  confession  of  Cineas,  frankly  made  to  his 
sister,  with  deep  and  strong  emotion,  and  an  earnestness 
which  showed  tliat  he  had  been  moved  to  tlie  inmost  depths 
of  Iiis  being  by  the  study  of  the  book  which  she  had  lent 
him.  She  said  not  a  word  ;  nor  did  she  venture  upoji  any 
interruption  of  any  kind.  She  hoped  that  he  would  end  it  all 
by  declaring  that  he  had  found  all  that  he  h.ad  ever  sought. 
Slie  herself  was  moved  by  the  evident  depth  of  his  feeling, 
and  hoped  that  they  might  be  cordially  joined  in  a  joyous 
reception  of  this  new  doctrine.  And  so,  as  he  at  length 
paused,  she  said, — 

"  And  what  do  you  think  this  wondrous  One  may  be  ? 
Do  you  think  that  he  can  be  all  that  the  Christians  say 
he  is  ?  " 

Cineas  was  silent  for  some  time. 

"  1  know  all  that  the  Christians  believe,  and  I  can  say  this, 
that  I  am  not  vet  a  Christian.  I  may  never  be  one.  I  will 
tell  you,  my  si>Ler,  what  my  present  opinion  is,  —  as  far  as  I 
have  formed  an  opinion. 

"  I  think  that  this  man  is  another  Socrj  tes,  formed  under 
different  circum>tances,  and,  perhaps,  more  favorable  ones. 
F'roni  many  conversations  which  I  have  had  with  Isaac,  I 
have  learned  much  about  the  Jews.  They  were  a  nation 
ainonjj  whom  reli<;ious  thouKhts  of  a  most  exalted  nature 
were  common  to  all.  Tliey  were  jirofoundly  earnest  and 
serious,  with  feelings  of  awful  reverence  toward  the  ]\[ost 
High,  whom  they  believed  to  be  always  present  among  them. 

"  Now,  we  Athenians  have  always  been  lively,  witty,  and 
sarcastic,  with  a  strong  love  for  argument  and  discussion. 
Our  great  teacher  bore  our  character.  lie  was  Ibnd  of  dis- 
cussion ;  he  was  lively,  fond  of  banter,  quick  at  retort,  and 
had  that  indirect  way  of  making  assertions,  which  is  a  cliar- 
acteri>tic  of  the  people  to  which  he  belonged.  He  was  in- 
vincible in  discussion,  his  wit  was  unequalled,  his  irony  was 
overpowering.  He  was  a  great  teacher,  but  one  of  the 
thorough  Athenian  st^'le. 


'54 


Cineas  and  Helena. 


"But  this  Jewish  teacher  came  fresh  from  a  solemn,  silent 
people,  full  of  veneration,  possessed  of  sublime  ideas  of  God, 
and  convinced  of  his  love  for  ihem.  He  was  a  true  child  of 
such  a  people.  He  was  solemn,  impressive,  earnest,  like 
themselves.  He  spoke  positively  as  they  did.  He  never 
hinted  at  truth,  but  proclaimed  it  aloud.  In  short,  he  was  a 
Jewish  Socrates,  if  such  a  term  be  not  contradictory ;  or  he 
was  what  Socrates  might  have  been  had  he  been  born  a  Jew. 

"  There  are  many  tilings  which  I  cannot  understand,  espe- 
cially his  miracles,  and  the  cliaracter  of  them.  Socrates 
plainly  stated  that  he  was  sent  by  God,  as  did  the  Jewish 
teacher,  but  he  never  pretended  to  perform  miracles.  The 
only  sign  of  supernatural  power  which  he  presented  was  his 
*  attendant  spirit,'  —  his  dremon.  But,  perhaps,  among  the 
sceptical  Athenians  it  was  better  not  to  have  the  power  of 
performing  miracles.  It  might  have  put  an  end  to  his  career 
at  an  early  period. 

"  Such  are  my  present  impressions,  my  dearest,  but  I  have 
many  difficulties  before  me.  These  feelings  of  mine  may 
change.  But  you  know  how  cautious  I  am,  what  a  true 
Athenian  I  am,  and  how  I  look  on  every  possible  side  before 
I  receive  any  new  proposition.  Believe  me,  however,  what 
1  have  read  in  that  book  will  not  soon  be  forgotten.  I  feel 
even  now  that  it  exerts  a  strange  influence  over  me." 

Such  was  the  effect  of  this  book  on  Cineas.  Helena  said 
but  little,  knowing  that  an  attempt  at  argument  would  only 
confirm  him  in  the  views  which  he  might  defend,  but  rather 
left  him  to  himself. 


T"    ■V''" 


XIV. 


THE   COURT  OF  NERO. 


HE  court  of  Nero  presented  to  the  world  an  un- 
equalled spectacle  of  folly  and  vice.     The  emperor 
had   always  entertained  a  passionate  fondness  for 
everything  Greek,  whether  in  art,  or  literature,  or 
f*'/ i^l'^  gymnastics.     In  his  self-conceit  he  was  not  content 


to  stand  in  the  attitude  of  a  patron  towards  these 
w  things,  but  sought  to  be  a  competitor  in  all.  He 
instituted  trials  of  skill  in  music,  wrestling,  and  horseman- 
sliip,  called  Neronia,  which  were  to  be  performed  every  five 
years.  Not  satisfied  with  this,  he  determined  to  descend  into 
the  arena,  and  win  some  of  those  honors  which  the  strains  of 
Pindar  once  made  so  glorious.  He  aspired  to  the  fame  of  a 
charioteer,  and  besides  this,  he  loved  to  sing  his  own  verses 
to  tlie  accompaniment  of  the  liarp.  He  used  to  say  "  that  in 
iincient  times  this  had  been  the  practice  of  heroes  and  of 
kings."  He  celebrated  the  names  of  illustrious  men  who 
had  distinguished  tliemselves  in  this  way,  and  said  that 
Apollo  had  less  glory  from^iis  gift  of  prophecy  than  from 
liis  office  as  patron  of  the  muses.  In  his  statues  the  god  was 
thus  represented. 

Seneca  and  Burrhus  tried  to  prevent  the  emperor  of  the 
world  from  debasing  himself  in  the  eyes  of  the  people,  and 
!it  lirst  restrained  him  partially.  A  wide  space  at  the  foot  of 
the  Vatican  was  enclosed  for  his  use,  and  there  lie  [)ractised 
his  bi'loved  arts,  at  first  in  comparative  seclusion.  But  his 
love  of  fame  made  him  dissatisfied  with  tiiese  contracted 
bounds  ;  he  invited  the  people  to  see  him,  and  their  applause, 

(156) 


'56 


The  Court  of  Nero, 


<m 


given  without  stint  oi*  measure,  served  to  lead  him  on  to  new 
excesses. 

Thereupon  he  determined  to  mrke  his  own  foUies  excusa- 
ble by  associating  olhers  witli  himself.  lie  found  poor  de- 
scendants of  illustrious  families,  and  paid  them  for  their  co- 
opei'a"  .n.  He  produced  these  on  the  public  stage.  His 
success  made  him  go  still  further,  and  by  heavy  brili  s  he 
induced  seveial  Roman  knights  to  perform  in  the  arena. 

Thru  he  established  a  kind  of  amusemcui  called ''y«^e/u7e 
Spoi'ts."  Men  of  high  rank  enrolled  themselves  in  this  asso- 
ciation, and  all  classes  soon  sought  menibciship.  Its  object 
was  to  promote  the  theatrical  art.  Women  of  rank  followed 
the  prevailing  fashion.  One  woman,  of  eighty  years  of  age, 
named  iElia  Catella,  forgot  herself  so  far  as  to  dance  on 
the  stage.  Luxury  and  corruption  reigned  supreme  here, 
and  the  sports  served  to  pamper  the  worst  inclinations. 

All  these  things  seemed  to  impel  onward  Nero  to  fresh  ex- 
travagances. The  corru?>tion  of  the  time  encouraged  him  to 
throw  otf  all  restraint.  At  length  he  went  upon  the  public 
stage,  in  the  siglit  of  the  people,  as  a  performer.  He  entered 
the  scen(!  with  a  haq)  in  his  hand,  and  affected  the  arts  of  pro- 
fessional musicinns.  A  circle  of  his  friends  was  near,  tri- 
bunes and  centurions  were  at  hand,  and  a  praetorian  cohort 
was  on  guard  to  protect  him.  All  applauded  the  master  of 
the  world. 

In  connection  with  this,  Nero  instituted  a  company  of  Ro- 
man knights  under  the  name  o^The  Aiujmtan  Society,  all 
of  whom  were  young  men  of  profligate  tendencies.  They 
seconded  Nero  in  his  wildest  extravagances,  whether  of  mu- 
sical performances  or  horse-^'acing.  The  leaders  of  the  so- 
ciety had  salaries  of  forty  thousand  sesterces  each.  They 
became  the  most  eager  supporters  of  their  patron;  praised 
all  his  acts,  and  offered  to  him  the  most  extravagant  compli- 
ments and  the  grossest  of  flatteries,  for  each  one  liop-'J,  by 
this,  for  personal  advancement. 

One  of  Nero's  highest  desires  was  to  excel  in  poetry.     All 


The  Court  of  No'o. 


157 


who  loved  the  art  were  invited  to  join  a  society  for  this  pur- 
pose. The  members  of  this  society  met  on  familiar  terms  of 
intimacy,  and  brought  their  productions  to  these  meetings. 
Sometimes  they  brought  fragments  of  poetical  composition, 
and  then  endeavored  to  unite  them  all  into  a  regular  poem, 
always,  however,  giving  chief  prominence  to  the  productions 
of  the  emi)eror. 

Thus  Nero,  amid  his  cruelties,  wasted  his  time  in  fri\olities 
as  well  as  vices,  and  the  world  followed  the  example  which 
the  rider  set  them,  only  too  readily. 

All  this  time  j  jro  had  a  restraint  upon  i.':nin  the  persons 
of  Burrluis  and  Seneca ;  but  the  time  now  came  when  these 
restraints  were  removed. 

Burrhus  died  :  iiddenly  from  a  disease  in  h"s  tliroat.  Men 
whispered  to  each  other  that  poison  had  been  administered 
by  some  one  of  Nero's  emissaries,  and  that  when  the  em- 
peror visited  his  dying  friend,  the  latter  turned  his  face  away 
from  him. 

After  his  death  Tigellinus  rose.  The  situation  w  :  ^  given 
to  him,  and  to  another  named  Rufus,  but  Tigellinus  was  the 
real  actor.  This  man  had  risen  through  a  long  career  of  un- 
scrupulous vice  to  be  the  chief  favorite  of  the  emperor. 
Burrhus  always  hated  him,  and  kept  him  under  some  control, 
but  now  there  remained  no  obstacle  between  him  and  his  de- 
sires. The  same  arts  which  had  made  him  intiuential  with 
Nero  for  so  long  a  time,  peipettiated  that  influence  and  in- 
creased his  ascendency  every  day. 

Seneca  felt  the  effects  of  the  death  of  his  friend.  There 
was  no  longer  any  [)ossibility  of  making  headway  against  the 
corruptions  of  the  court,  and  he  soon  learned  the  change 
which  had  taken  place  in  his  position.  Secret  enemies  beg.an 
to  undermine  him.  His  vast  wealth,  and  tiie  means  which 
he  used  to  increase  that  wealth,  had  made  his  name  disliked 
even  among  the  virtuous,  while  his  general  character  miide 
him  hateful  to  the  vicious.     The  creatures  of  Tigellinus,  and 

thb  more  abandoned  courtiei's,  never  cea>ed  to  fill  the  mind  of 
14 


[       A 

|.                % 

1                1 

158 


The  Court  of  Nero. 


Nfiro  with  their  slanders,  until  at  length  Seneca  found  it  im- 
possible to  live  at  the  court  in  comfort  or  safety. 

He  be^songht  Nero  to  allow  him  to  go  into  retirement, 
enumerated  the  many  favors  which  he  had  received,  praisoil 
the  generosity  of  the  emperor,  and  pleaded  his  age  and  in- 
firmities as  an  excuse  for  his  wishes. 

Nero  answered  him  in  words  wliich  were  of  the  most  flat- 
tering and  complimentary  character.  He  assured  Seneca 
that  he  owed  to  him  all  that  he  knew,  and  declared  that  lie 
had  never  given  back  anything  like  an  equivalent  return  for 
the  benefits  which  he  had  received.  He  refused  to  let  liiin 
go,  and  said  that  he  still  needed  his  wise  counsel. 

To  this  Seneca  had  to  yield,  and,  though  doubting  the  sin- 
cerity of  Nero,  he  was  forced  to  continue  in  connection  with 
him.  But  in  oi'der  to  disarm  envy  and  suspicion,  he  lived  in 
a  most  retired  manner,  avoided  display,  and  appeared  abroad 
but  seldom.  He  preserved  his  life  for  a  time,  but  his  influ- 
ence was  gone,  and  Nero  now,  having  lost  his  last  restraint, 
set  no  bounds  to  his  cruelty.  All  who  excited  his  suspicions 
were  removed  by  death.  Among  the  most  eminent  of  his 
victims  was  the  noble  Plautus,  whose  death  filled  the  world 
with  terror.  Yet  so  slavish  was  the  public  mind,  that  tlie 
Roman  senate,  when  informed  of  this  murder,  decreed  public 
vows  and  supplications  to  the  gods.  This  action  of  the 
senate  taught  Nero  that  no  possible  obstacle  lay  before  him 
in  the  accomplisliment  of  any  of  his  desires. 

He  now  determined  to  carry  out  an  intention  which  he 
had  cherished  for  some  time,  and  that  was,  to  get  rid  of  his 
wife  Octavia.  The  pure  life  of  Octavia  was  a  perpetual  re- 
])roach  to  him,  and  her  own  character  made  her  hateful  to  a 
man  like  him.  Above  all  he  was  desperately  in  love  with 
Poppoea,  and  had  determined  to  make  her  his  wife.  False 
witnesses  were  easily  found  who  swore  foul  crimes  against 
Octavia.  Her  servants  were  seized  and  put  to  the  torture, 
and,  though  many  were  constant,  yet  some,  overcome  by 
agony,  confessed  whatever  was  asked  them.     Octavia  was 


i 


:l;,ufi[  iiii 


T 


m\ ' 


TAe  Court  of  Nero. 


159 


condemned,  and  repudiated,  and  dismissed  from  the  palace, 
anil  afterward  banished. 

lint  Octavia  was  loved  and  pitied  by  the  people ;  mur- 
ninrs  arose,  and  finally  the  clamor  grew  so  great  that  Nero 
iiad  to  recall  her  from  banishment.  But  Poppa^a  had  vowed 
her  death,  and  never  ceased  to  exert  all  her  arts  upon  Nero  for 
this  purpose.  She  did  not  find  the  tiisk  a  dilficult  one.  New 
plots  were  formed  against  the  unhappy  lady,  and  finally  an 
infamous  wretch  was  found  by  whom  fresh  crimes  were  laid 
to  her  charge,  and  she  was  once  more  banished.  There  in 
a  few  days  she  received  orders  to  put  herself  to  death.  She 
was  young  and  timid,  she  had  known  much  sorrow,  and 
at  this  last  calamity  her  nature  faltered  in  the  presence  of 
(Icatli.  But  her  supplications  were  of  no  avail.  She  was 
seized,  her  veins  were  opened,  and  since  the  blood  did  not 
flow  fast  enough  in  the  chill  of  her  fear,  she  was  taken  to  a 
vapor  bath  and  there  suffocated. 

All  Rome  was  filled  with  horror,  but,  nevertheless,  the 
senate  ordered  thanks  to  be  returned  to  the  gods,  even  for 
this,  as  they  had  done  ir  o^her  cases. 

But  the  life  of  the  court  knew  no  change.  Still  the  gayety 
and  the  debauchery  went  on,  and  still  Nero  cherished  his 
tastes  for  literature,  philosophy,  and  art.  Men  of  genius  still 
frequented  the  place ;  indeed,  whatever  they  felt  they  did 
not  dare  to  retire,  for  fear  of  alarming  the  jealoui  tyrant. 

Lucan  and  Seneca,  great  names  in  that  age,  and  great 
names  yet,  still  resorted  to  the  palace.  Among  those  who 
were  most  agreeable  to  Nero,  none  surpassed  the  gay  and 
light-hearted  Potronius.  He  was  a  man  of  singular  ch-^rac- 
ter,  who  illustrated  some  of  the  peculiarities  of  the  age.  He 
sle[)t  through  the  day,  and  caroused  through  the  night.  In 
his  manner  at  court  he  appeared  to  be  the  most  indolent  of 
men.  He  sought  advancement  by  cultivating  all  known 
pleasures.  He  spent  monev  lavishly,  yet  never  went  be- 
yond his  fortune,  and  shov  .  the  same  caution  even  in  his 
pleasures,  for  he  took  care  to  keep  himself  from  extremes. 


il 


l.  Ill 


m 


1 60 


T/ic  Court  0/  JVcro. 


lie  was  an  opicnrc.  but  not  a  sjliitton;  and  played  tho  pnrt 
of  a  refined  and  eli'jjjant  voluptuary.  Deli^jflitful  in  eonvor- 
Bation,  with  j^ay  and  ready  wit,  .-killed  in  nuisie  and  in  art, 
and  a  writer  of  acknowledged  <;niinenco,  he  combined  in  his 
person  thotie  intellectiial  and  moral  ([iialities  which  could 
best  secure  the  favor  of  a  man  like  Nero.  He  became  the 
arbiter  of  taste,  and  jrained  a  great  ascendency  over  the  em- 
peror,—  so  much  so,  indeed,  that  Tig(dlinus  became  more 
jealous  of  hini  than  any  other  man,  and  sought  his  ruin 
above  all  things.  Petrouius  knew  his  malignity,  but  cared 
nothing.  II(!  had  a  supreme  indiirerence  to  fortune,  and 
eared  nothing  whether  the  following  day  should  bring  glory 
or  ruin.  On  account  of  this  magnificent  indifference,  he  was 
perhaps  the  only  man  in  all  that  court  who  was  really  as 
light-hearted  as  he  seemed. 

Meanwhile  the  position  of  Cineas  and  Labeo  was  a  pe- 
culiar one.  Both  looked  upon  the  crimes  of  Nero  with 
abhorrence.  By  Cineas  the  death  of  Burrhus  had  been  felt 
as  a  severe  calamity,  and  the  memory  of  old  friend>liip  made 
the  bereavement  a  sad  one.  But  his  grief  for  Burrhus  was 
not  e(|ual  to  his  sorrow  for  the  wretched  Octavia.  It  sick- 
ened liis  soul  to  think  that  these  things  could  be  done,  and 
that  a  servile  senate  could  applaud. 

Yet  he  still  visited  the  court,  and  for  various  reasons  Nero 
received  him  with  undiminished  favor.  If  he  had  absented 
himself  he  would  have  inevitably  aroused  the  suspicions  of 
the  tyrant,  and  those  suspicions  would  have  been  heightened 
by  the  arts  of  those  who  were  jealous  of  him.  The  only 
way  to  quit  the  court  was  to  go  back  to  Athens.  But  this 
lie  had  no  wish  to  do.  He  had  many  reasons  for  remaining 
ill  Rome. 

It  was  not  moral  cowardice  on  his  part  that  led  liim  to 
continue  his  attendatu'e  in  court.  When  the  proper  occa- 
eion  might  demand,  Cineas  could  show  as  much  courage  as 
any  one.  But  if  lie  now  showed  in  any  way  any  disappro- 
bation of  Nero's  proceedings,  he  could  effect  nothing.     He 


mt 


U  .1 


The  Cotiri  of  Nero. 


i6i 


would  simply  involve  him.self  in  ruin,  and  naturally  enough 
lie  did  not  wish  to  court  danger.  In  the  first  place,  he  con- 
sidered himself.  He  had  a  great  pur{)ose  in  life,  and  he 
wi.-hed  calmly  to  carry  that  out.  He  did  not  wi.sh  to  rush 
jicadlong  into  imjjrisonment,  or  banishment,  or  death.  He 
could  endure  all  these  if  he  saw  duty  compelling  him,  but 
his  duty  here  seemed  to  be  to  carry  out  his  search  after  truth. 
He  wished  to  be  a  philosopher,  lint  if  he  himself  only 
had  been  concerned,  he  would  undoubtedly,  in  his  first  fierce 
indignation,  have  lett  the  court  and  taken  the  consequences. 
He  loathed  the  man  who  sat  on  the  throne  of  the  world,  and 
it  was  only  by  an  effort  that  he  could  preserve  his  old  de- 
iiu'anor  when  in  his  presence.  He  loathed  the  sycophants 
who  filled  the  court,  and  were  ready  to  commit  any  crime  so 
as  to  secure  the  favor  of  the  emperor.  But  he  had  to  con- 
sider others  beside  himself.  His  sister  and  Labeo  and 
Marcus  all  were  with  him,  and  if  he  fell  into  disgrace,  they 
would  share  it.  The  hopes  and  the  prospects  of  Labeo,  now 
so  fair,  would  receive  a  tatal  shoi;k,  and  the  labor  of  years 
would  be  brought  to  naught.  Yet  this  was  not  all.  A  de- 
dine  in  favor,  a  palpable  disgrace,  would  only  be  the  signal 
for  ruin  to  them  all.  Tigellinus  stood  ready  to  assail  them 
whenever  the  chance  offered  itself.  With  his  crowds  of  hire- 
lings he  could  make  any  charge  which  he  pleased  against 
them,  and  confii-m  it  by  false  witnesses.  To  fall  into  disfavor 
with  Nero,  would  be  to  involve  himself  and  all  his  friends 
in  one  general  calamity. 

With  all  these  considerations  to  influence  him,  Cineas  was 
compelled  as  long  as  he  remained  in  Rome  to  frequent  the 
court  as  before.  Yet  he  did  it  with  a  burdened  mind.  The 
crime  that  was  enthroned  there  was  too  open  and  too  gross. 
He  loathed  the  society  into  which  he  found  himself  forced 
to  go. 

Labeo,  on  the  other  hand,  knew  noth  ing  of  the  distress  of 
mind  which  actuated  Cineas.  His  feelings  about  the  crimes 
of  Nero  were  those  of  utter  abhorrence.     But  he  considered 

14* 


l62 


The  Court  of  .\' era. 


that  it  was  not  his  husincrfs  to  say  a  woivl.  His  military 
traiiiiiijif  had  brought  him  all  his  lite  in  oiitact  with  men 
who  coinniitttMl  the  most  villanous  crimt's  bcrore  his  very 
oyef».  These  things  which  Nero  had  doni;  did  not  shock  hitn 
so  much  as  Cineas.     Familiarity  had  hardened  him. 

His  great  obj<!ct  in  lile  was  advancement.  He  was  ambi- 
tious,  but  it  was  a  noble  ambition,  ininfxled  with  love  tor  his 
son,  and  fond  thonjfhts  ol'  future  honors  fur  him.  He  la- 
bored, and  the  motive  of  that  labor  was  that  he  might  leave 
a  great  name  and  a  great  estate  to  Marcus.  In  the  effort  to 
acquire  this  he  would  never  descend  to  the  UKiannesscs 
which  were  so  common  in  his  day.  His  soul  was  incapable 
of  anything  dishonoralde.  He  was  glad  of  the  opportunity 
of  being  present  at  court,  and  hoped  that  it  might  lead  to 
some  high  and  dignilied  oifiee. 

After  all,  the  position  of  these  two  was  not  so  painful  as 
might  be  supposed.  This  arose  from  the  peculiar  character 
of  Nero.  In  all  his  debaucheries  and  excesses  he  never 
once  asked  them  to  take  a  part.  In  tiict,  he  did  not  even 
exjiect  it.     He  looked  upon  both  in  a  peculiar  light. 

With  Cineas  he  never  conversed,  except  on  such  subjects 
as  art,  literature,  and  i)hilosophy.  The  splendid  attainments 
of  the  Athenian  in  all  these  things  charmed  him.  He  nould 
not  consider  him  in  any  other  light.  He  called  him  hi^  poet, 
or  his  philosopher.  He  separated  the  world  of  his  amuse- 
ments altogether  from  the  world  of  intelleciual  pursuits  ;  and 
had  no  more  idea  of  asking  Cineas  to  share  his  pleasures 
than  of  asking  Seneca.  Nero  loved  to  affect  the  philosophi- 
cal tone,  to  quote  Plato,  to  discuss  such  subjects  as  the 
immoi;ulity  of  the  soul,  the  summum  bonnin,  and  other  gnat 
questions  which  were  common  among  })hilosophers.  He 
also  loved  to  talk  of  the  science  of  metres,  to  unfold  his  own 
theories  on  the  subject,  and  suggest  new  improvements  in 
the  structme  of  verse.  Nero  believed  most  implic"  y  in 
himself.  He  thought  that  he  was  a  kind  of  universal  patron 
of  letters,  and  it  gave  him  more  pleasun  t »  v'onsider  himself 


The  Court  of  Nero. 


163 


in  tliis  light,  than  to  rc^jianl  himself  as  the  master  of  tlie 
\vorI<l.  In  thc'-c  disfussions  on  the  innnortality  of  the  soul, 
or  on  the  Greek  games,  or  on  the  power  of  varying  metres, 
ho  never  made  he  remotest  {illusion,  by  any  chance,  to  the 
events  of  the  ume.  Agrii)|)ina  and  Oetavia  were  forgotten. 
He  lived  in  the  past.  Tiie  poets,  the  heroes,  or  the  gods  of 
that  past  fonif  I  the  only  subjects  which  he  noticed.  In 
liiiii  the  dilettante  spirit  reached  the  most  extraordinary  de- 
vi'lopmciit  which  it  has  ever  gained. 

As  he  regarded  Cineas,  so  did  he  look  on  Labeo.  Wwi 
Labeo  stood  before  him  in  a  very  different  character.  The 
former  was  his  philosopher  or  poet.  The  latter  was  his 
ideal  of  the  Roman.  His  taste  was  gratified  by  the  splen<li(l 
pliysical  development  of  Labeo,  and  none  the  less,  strange 
though  it  appear,  by  his  incorruptible  integrity,  his  high- 
souled  virtue,  and  his  lofty  moral  instincts.  Nero  called 
him  sometinie>  "  Hercules,"  but  afterwards  preferred  to 
name  him  "  Cato."  The  virtue  of  Labeo  gratified  him  in 
precisely  the  same  way  in  which  a  well-executed  statue  did. 
In  both  cases  it  was  simply  a  matter  of  taste.  He  had  a 
strong  perception  of  the  fitness  of  things.  It  would  have 
shocked  him  if  Labeo  had  in  any  one  instance  shown  a  ten- 
dency toward  ordinary  folly  or  frailty.  It  would  have 
marred  his  ideal.  It  would  have  been  such  excessive  bad 
taste  in  Labeo  Miat  he  could  neither  have  forgiven  it  nor 
forgotten  it.  And  so,  to  this  strange  being,  the  very  excesses 
which  he  urged  upon  otliers,  and  practised  himself,  would 
have  aj)peared  an  unpardonable  offence  if  they  had  been 
practised  either  by  Cineas  or  Labeo.  To  some  it  would 
have  been  death  to  refrain ;  to  these  it  would  have  been 
doatli  to  indulge. 

Such  was  Nero. 

Now  if  Cineas  had  been  truly  wise  he  would  have  turned 
from  this  court  and  its  associations,  to  one  who  could  have 
told  him  far  more  than  ever  he  had  learned  either  from 


■t 


164 


The  Luuri  of  Nero. 


Ill 


"  The  Master,"  or  from  Isaac,  or  any  other  with  whom  lie 
had  ever  been  hroiijijht  into  (•onn<?ction. 

Paul  had  been  presented  to  Iuh  mind  as  a  man  of  very  re- 
markable character,  and  Cineaa  had  frequently  felt  desirous 
of  an  interview  with  him,  yet  he  had  never  yet  sought  one. 

There  were  various  reasons  for  this,  among  which  the 
strongest  was  perhaps  his  Grecian  pride.  He  did  not  see  in 
its  full  grandeur  the  character  of  the  great  apostle.  He 
looked  upon  him  as  a  brave  man,  and  perhaps,  in  some 
things,  a  great  man,  but  in  his  heart  of  hearts  h(;  depreciated 
him  as  a  Jew.  He  did  not  wish  to  learn  anything  from  such 
a  man.  If  he  had  been  an  associate  with  Seneca,  or  if  lie 
had  seen  him  moving  among  the  great  ones  of  Rome,  he 
might  perhaps  have  sought  an  interview.  As  it  was,  he 
never  made  an  effort. 

Yet  Cineas  had  leanings  toward  this  new  religion,  of 
which  he  had  already  seen  such  beautiful  and  touching  mani- 
festations. He  desired  to  learn  even  more  of  it.  He  thonglit 
that  he  had  already  learned  all  that  the  writings  of  the  Chris- 
tians could  teach  him,  but  still  felt  some  desire  to  see  more 
of  the  Christians  themselves. 


eas. 


ing 


XV. 


^_ 


THE   CENTURION. 


v^FTER  they  hnrl  been  in  Rome  a  few  weeks  Julius 
came  to  see  Cineas.  In  the  course  of  conversation 
he  asked  the  latter  if  he  felt  willing  to  go  to  one  of 
the  meetings  of  the  Christians. 

"  They  hold  their  regular  meetings,"  said  he,  "  on 
the  first  day  of  their  week.  They  follow  the  Jew- 
ish fashion  of  dividing  time  into  portions  of  seven 
(lays  each,  and  they  take  one  day  out  of  the  seven  for  rest 
from  worldly  cares,  just  as  the  Jews  do  with  their  Sabbath. 
They  do  no  work  or  business  of  any  kind  on  that  day,  but 
consider  it  sacred.  They  meet  on  the  morning  of  the  first 
day  of  their  week  for  religious  services,  and  they  have  chospu 
that  day  because  they  believe  that  on  that  day  their  divinity 
Christ  rose  from  the  dead  after  he  was  crucified." 

"  Have  you  been  to  any  of  these  meetings  ?  "  asked  Cin- 
eas. 

"  Yes,  to  several.  The  Christians  make  this  their  chief 
meeting.  They  have  a  fashion  of  eating  bread  and  drink- 
ing wine  together,  because  their  master  instituted  this,  and 
directed  them  always  to  do  it  in  remembrance  of  Him. 
Tiiey  attach  to  it  a  certain  solemn  and  mystic  signification, 
and  tiiink  that  their  meeting  on  that  day  is  holier  than  any 
other.  But  they  also  hav  .  meetings  at  night,  and  this  night 
is  one  which  they  have  appointed  for  this  purpose." 

Cineas  was  glad  of  the  opportunity,  and  said  as  much. 
He  wished  to  see  these  Christians  by  themselves,  so  as  to 
learn  how  they  worshipped  God.     He  had  learned  enough 

(165) 


i66 


The  Centurion. 


of  their  doctrines  to  respect  them,  if  he  did  not  helieve  them. 
lie  Ivnew  that  tliey  contained  some  of  the  most  suhhme  truths 
tliiit  he  had  ever  become  ac(iuainted  with,  >i""h  as  the  spir- 
ituality of  God,  his  almighty  power,  his  iniiiiite  wisdom,  and 
many  others  which  he  used  to  think  belongcid  only  to  plii- 
losophy.  But  with  these  he  knew  that  they  had  another, 
gn-ater  far  than  any  wliich  philosophy  had  taught;  and 
tliiit  was  the  sublime  doctrine  of  the  personality  of  this  In- 
finite One,  —  his  interest  in  the  affairs  of  man  ;  his  care  for 
his  creatures.  The  Christians  believed  that  lie  took  a  direct 
personal  interest  in  human  concerns ;  that  he  looked  on  man 
with  the  feelings  of  a  father;  that  lie  watched  over  the  life 
of  every  one  of  his  creaiares ;  in  one  word,  that  he  loved 
them. 

(jiod  loves!  Sublime  doctrine.  This  at  least  Cineas  had 
learned  from  the  manuscript  which  he  had  read.  In  spite 
of  all  his  attempts  to  make  Socrates  a  parallel  with  Jesus, 
he  felt  that  there  was  a  mysterious  difference  between  them. 
He  felt  that  between  the  uncertain  utterances  of  the  one, 
surrounded  as  they  were  with  doubts  and  limitations  iuul 
hesitancies,  and  the  direct  teachings  of  the  other,  with  all 
their  strange  power,  and  might,  and  majc^iy,  there  was  a 
wide  dissimilarity.  The  one  hesitated,  the  other  declared ; 
the  former  doubted,  the  latter  taught.  From  the  teachings 
of  Jesus  he  received  this  one  truth,  which  sank  deeply  into 
his  mind  ;  a  truth  which  he  had  often  struggled  .ifter,  oftc.-i 
sought  to  deduce  from  the  writings  of  I'lato,  but  which  often 
eluded  him,  and  was  "ays  hard  to  determine  ;  —  this  was 
the  very  truth  which  Jesus  taught  above  all  things,  —  the 
doctrine  that  (jlod  loves.  He  received  this  with  a  strange 
exultation;  he  felt  that  this  was  true.  It  was  something  tliat 
satisried  his  doubts,  removed  his  perplexities,  and  dispelled 
the  gloom  that  often  gathered  over  his  raind.  God  can  love, 
and  God  doe  love.  This  was  what  he  learned  from  the 
Christian  writings. 


The  Ccntiirt'on, 


167 


And  so  he  gladly  accepted  the  invitation  of  Julius,  to  ac- 
coni;  any  him  to  one  of  tlie  Christian  meetings. 

It  was  late,  and,  as  there  was  no  moon,  it  was  very  dark. 
The  two  set  out  unattended,  but,  a.>  the  streets  of  Ron  *  were 
unsafe  after  dark,  they  both  went  armed.  Each  one  carried 
a  torch,  and,  thus  ecjuipped,  they  set  out  for  the  place  of  their 
destination. 

Julius  led  the  way.  The  streets  were  narrow  and  wind- 
ing. Tiie  houses  rose  up  on  either  side  to  a  great  height, 
sometimes  hav'"g  as  many  as  twelve  or  fifteen  stories.  Ju- 
lius seemed  to  L  perfectly  at  home  in  the  hdjyrinth  o^  streets. 
He  walked  rapidly  on,  turned  corner  after  corner,  and  never 
hesi.ated  for  a  moment.  Cinea.s  soon  became  so  completely 
bewildered  that  he  had  no  idea  of  where  he  was. 

Lights  gleamed  in  the  windows  that  were  open,  and  flick- 
ered through  tl;  )se  that  were  shut.  Often,  a  loud  ery  from 
above  made  them  start.  At  such  times  a  window  would 
open,  and  a  vessel  would  be  discharged  into  the  streets  below. 

"If  my  father  were  here,"  said  .Julius,  "he  would  rail  at 
this  as  one  of  the  fashions  of  Rome,  aiif^  swear  that  no  man's 
life  was  safe,  ai: •  r  dark,  in  these  streets.  But  there,  —  lis- 
ten to  that !     With  what  a  crack  that  struck  the  pavement." 

i\  ~  he  spoke  something  came  crashing  down  immediately  in 
front  of  them.  It  was  thrown  from  the  very  topmost  story  of 
a  house, and  the  noise  that  it  made,  and  the  force  with  vhich 
it  fell,  made  CIneas  peculiarly  alive  to  the  dangers  of  the 
streets  after  dark,     ile  wa>glad  that  he  had  worn  his  lielmi  1. 

So  they  went  on  through  the  dark  >treets,  starting  back  as 
often  as  a  window  opened  above  them,  and  lookmg  around 
so  as  to  guard  against  the  impending  calamity.  .\t  length 
lights  api)eared  in  the  distance,  and  the  noise  of  men  and 
the  tumult  of  a  great  crowd. 

"We  are  coming  v>  Uie  Suburra,"  said  Julius. 

Along  tl  is  they  went;  amid  the  crowds  that  frequented 
this  place  most ;  among  booths  lighted  with  lamps  and 
torches;  and  the  surging  tide  of  men,  and  multitudes  that 


1 68 


The  Centurion. 


^ 


Roemecl  to  tlirong  as  numerously  by  night  as  by  day.  The 
innumerable  toi-ches  carried  in  the  hands  of  the  vast  multi- 
tude, with  their  flaming  ends  held  aloft,  swaying  and  toss- 
ing in  the  air,  threw  a  wild  fantastic  light  over  the  scene, 
and  gave  a  new  sensation  to  Cineas,  to  whom  the  wonders 
of  the  Suburra  by  night  now  appeared  for  the  first  linie. 
At  times  there  would  come  through  the  crowd  a  litter  con- 
taining some  noble,  preceded  by  a  long  train  of  clients,  and 
followed  by  others,  all  carrying  torches,  and  forcing  their 
way  rudely  through  the  crowd,  quite  cai-eless,  if  in  their 
rapid  progress  they  pushed  down  some  of  the  people  and 
trai!ipled  them  under  foot.  From  them  all  there  arose  a  wild 
hubbub  and  confusion  of  voices ;  the  followers  of  the  nobles 
shouting  at  the  crowd,  and  the  crowd  shouting  back ;  the 
venders  of  different  commodities  at  the  booths  calling  out 
their  wares  and  inviting  passers-by  to  purchase,  and  drunken 
men  at  times  yelling  out  wild  songs.  In  the  distance  all 
these  various  noises  mingled  together  in  one  indistinguish- 
able and  deafening  clamor,  while  nearer  at  hand  each  individ- 
ual noise  rose  high  above  the  general  din.  The  wild  clamor, 
the  rude  elbowing  of  the  mob,  the  rapid  rush  of  men,  the 
glare  of  the  conn"  ,ss  lights,  and  the  lurid  hue  which  tliey 
threw  upon  the  scene,  all  combined  to  bewilder  and  con- 
fuse Cineas.  But  Julius  was  accustomed  to  all  this,  and 
led  the  way  quickly  and  readily,  while  Cineas  had  much 
dilliculty  in  keeping  up  with  lam. 

At  last  they  turned  off  to  the  right  into  a  side  street,  and, 
after  trimming  their  torches,  they  proceeded  onward. 

They  had  not  proceeded  far  before  they  heard  loud  out- 
cries ;  voices  of  a  threatening  character  mingled  with  stern 
words  of  rebuke,  and  the  shrill  cry  of  a  woman's  voice. 

"  Some  villains  are  attacking  a  helpless  woman,"  said 
Julius,  and  at  once  set  off*  on  a  run,  followed  by  Cineas. 
Turning  round  a  corner  they  came  at  once  ui)on  the  scene  of 
tumult. 

A  dozen  men,  all  of  whom  appeared  to  be  drunk,  with 


The  Centurion. 


169 


torches  In  one  band,  and  swords  in  the  other,  surrounded 
one  solitary  man,  wlio  stood  witli  his  back  to  the  wall  of  a 
house,  while  behhid  him  crouched  a  young  girl.  The  man 
appeared  to  be  about  sixty  years  of  age,  and  he  wore  the 
dress  of  a  Roman  centurion.  With  his  drawn  sword  he 
tried  to  keep  his  assailants  at  bay.  They  shouted  around 
him,  and  rushed  at  him,  but  that  drawn  sword,  though  wielded 
by  an  aged  hand,  seemed  to  overawe  them  and  keep  them  at 
a  respectful  distance.  And  so,  shouting  and  dancing  like 
maniacs,  they  yelled  out  hideous  curses  at  the  old  man.  One 
of  tlicm  in  particular,  who  seemed  to  be  the  leader,  was  par- 
ticularly careful  to  stand  off'  at  a  safe  distance,  yet  eager  to 
hound  on  his  followers.     His  voice  seemed  familiar  to  Cineas. 

"  Ho  there,  old  rascal ! "  he  cried.  "  What  beggar's 
stand  do  you  come  from  ?  Whose  beans  have  you  been  eat- 
ing ?  Speak,  or  take  a  kicking.  You  cowards,"  he  roared, 
speaking  to  his  followers,  "  why  don't  you  take  the  old  beg- 
gar by  the  throat  and  throttle  him  ?  " 

Urged  on  thus,  the  villains  made  a  simultaneous  rush  at 
the  old  man.  His  sword  struck  one  of  them  to  the  heart. 
Another  followed.  The  next  inst.ant  a  half  dozen  hands 
seized  him.     In  another  moment  he  would  have  perished. 

But  with  a  loud  shout  Julius  and  Cineas  rushed  upon 
them.  One  man  whose  sword  was  uplifted  to  plunge  into 
the  heart  of  the  centurion  fell  beneath  the  sword  of  Julius. 
Cineas  sent  another  after  him.  The  rest  started  back  in 
fright,  and,  not  knowing  but  that  a  whole  guard  of  soldiers 
was  assailing  them,  took  to  their  heels. 

The  old  man  raised  up  the  girl  and  comforted  her. 

"  There,  dearest  daughter,  sweetest  Lydia,"  said  he  ca- 
ressingly, "  all  danger  is  over.  Rise  up.  Fear  not.  Come, 
stand  up  and  thank  these  brave  deliverers,  who  have  saved 
us  from  death  and  shame.  " 

The  young  girl  rose,  trembling  still,  with  downcast  eyes, 
and,  after  a  timid  glance  at  the  new  comers,  she  ilang  herself 
15 


li     i  ..(" 


170 


T^c  Centtirion. 


I 


into  her  father's  arms.      The  old  man  pressed  her  to  his 
heart. 

"  Noble  strangers,"  said  he,  "  whoever  you  be,  accept  a 
father's  th;inks.  It  is  not  my  life  that  you  liave  saved,  but 
my  daughter's  honor.  May  the  blessings  of  the  Great  God 
be  yours  ;  "  and  again  he  pressed  liis  dauglu-'r  in  his  arms. 

"  But  how  did  you  dare  to  venture  ort  with  this  young 
girl  ?  "  said  Julius,  looking  with  admiration  upon  the  fair  youn^ 
creature  who  hung  round  hti  father's  neck,  still  trembling 
with  fright. 

"  We  have  often  L'one  out  before.  This  is  a  quiet  street, 
out  of  the  way  of  all  the  villains  who  infest  Rome  after  dark, 
and  I  don't  know  how  they  happened  to  come  down  this  way 
to-night.  For  myself  I  have  no  fear.  I  could  easily  face 
and  fight  off  these  cowards,  old  though  I  am.  But  for  her  " 
—  the  old  man  paused. 

"  What  could  have  taken  her  out  ?  "  asked  Julius.  "  But 
come,  let  us  leave  this.  We  will  go  with  you.  We  were 
going  elsewhere,  but  now  we  will  not  leave  you,  for  these 
same  men  may  attack  you  again." 

"  Did  you  recognize  that  voice  ?  "  asked  Cineas,  as  they 
walked  along. 

"What  voice?" 

"  The  leader's. " 

"  Too  well,"  said  the  old  man.  "  That  voice  is  as  well 
known  in  the  streets  of  Rome  as  in  the  palace.  " 

*'  It  was  then  the  voice  of" —  Cineas  hesitated. 

"  Nero,"  said  the  old  man  sternly.  "  Yes.  The  master 
of  the  world  leads  bands  of  cut-throats  and  murderers  after 
dark  through  the  streets  of  Rome." 

They  walked  along  in  sihmce  for  some  time.  At  last  Ju- 
lius spoke. 

"You  invoked  upon  me  the  blessing  of  a  Great  God," 
said  he  inquiringly,  laying  emphasis  upon  a  form  not  used  by 
Romans. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  man,  "  I  did  so ;  I  am  a  Christian." 


VilSOS 


H:~U 


Mill 


TAc  Centurion. 


171 


Julius  half  uttered  an  exclamation  of  joy.  "  And  I,"  said 
he,  "  and  my  friend  are  not  Christians,  but  we  wish  to  know 
something  of  them,  and  I  was  taking  him  to  one  of  their 
meetings." 

"  And  I  was  taking  my  daughter  to  one,"  said  the  old  man. 
He  stopped  and  seized  the  hands  of  Cineas  and  Julius,  one 
in  each  of  his.  "  O  young  men,  —  my  saviors  and  benefac- 
tors, —  may  the  Great  God  grant  this  to  you,  to  know  liim 
through  Christ  Jesus,  as  I  know  him." 

lie  then  walked  onward.  "  I  am  a  Christian,  yet  I  have 
shed"  blood  this  niglit.  But  what  else  could  I  do  ?  I  would 
not  do  it  for  myself,  but  could  I  do  otherwise  when  she  was 
in  such  danger  ?     No ;  no." 

Julius  did  not  understand  such  scruples.  He  declared  that 
be  should  like  to  have  killed  them  all  —  even  if  the  leader 
himself  had  fallen.  "  And  you,  Roman  soldier  as  you  are," 
said  he,  "  what  else  can  you  do  but  fight,  if  you  are 
attacked  i " 

The  old  man  said  nothing  to  this,  but  continued  on  and 
talked  about  something  else.  At  last  they  reached  a  door, 
and  here  the  old  man  paused.  "You  are  too  late  for  the 
meeting,"  said  he,  "  and  my  home  is  of  the  humblest  kind, 
but  if  you  will  come  up  and  rest  for  a  while  I  shall  consider 
myself  honored." 

Both  Julius  and  Cineas  expressed  their  pleasure,  and  fol- 
lowed the  old  man  into  the  house. 

The  house  was  a  lofty  one,  like  most  of  the  common  habi- 
tations in  Rome.  They  followed  the  old  man  up  flight  after 
ilight  of  steps,  until  at  last  they  reached  the  very  topmost 
story.  Here  they  entered  a  small  room,  and  this  was  the 
liome  of  their  new  acquaintance.  In  this  room  there  was  a 
couch,  a  closet  on  the  top  of  which  were  a  few  small 
vases,  a  chest,  and  some  seats.  Another  room  adjoined  this, 
which  belonged  to  his  daughter.  Tiie  young  men  sat  down, 
and  the  maiden  brought  a  lamp,  and  after  putting  out  their 


'^ 


172 


TAe  Centurion. 


torches,  the  dull  glimmer  of  the  single  lamp  alone  illumined 
the  apartment. 

The  old  man  told  them  that  his  name  was  Eubulus,  and 
that  of  his  daughter  Lydia.  Julius  and  Cineas  had  now 
more  leisure  to  regard  the  appearance  of  their  new  ac- 
quaintances. Eubulus  was  a  man  of  venerable  aspect,  with 
crisp,  gray  hair,  and  beard  cut  close,  with  strongly  marked 
features,  that  would  have  been  hard  and  stern,  if  it  had  not 
been  for  a  certain  sweetness  and  gentleness  of  expretision 
mingled  a  kind  of  sadness  that  predominated  there.  His 
speech  was  somewhat  abrupt,  not  from  rudeness,  but  mther 
from  a  kind  of  pi'eoccupation  of  mind.  His  daughter  hud 
no  resemblance  whatever  to  him.  A  sweet  and  gentle  face, 
with  large,  dark,  luminous  eyes,  such  as  are  peculiar  to  the 
South,  with  heavy  masses  of  dark  and  thick  clustering  hair, 
and  rich  olive  comj)lexion  ;  a  i'ace  that  showed  much  wo- 
manly purity  and  tenderness,  with  the  most  delicate  sensi- 
tiveness, and  in  the  depths  of  those  dark  eyes  of  hers  there 
lay  a  power  of  love  and  devotion  which  could  be  capable  if 
aroused  of  daring  all  things  and  enduring  all  things.  Yet 
she  was  a  shrinking  and  timid  girl  now,  not  yet  recovered 
from  her  fright,  grateful  to  her  preservers,  yet  almost  afraid 
to  look  at  them  ;  gently  obeying  her  father's  wishes,  doing 
his  bidding  quickly  yet  quietly,  and  then  retreating  like  a 
timid  fawn  into  her  own  room.  Julius  followed  her  with  his 
eyes,  and  looked  into  that  dark  room  where  she  had  retreated, 
as  though  by  his  gaze  he  would  draw  her  back. 

"  I  have  shed  blood  this  night,"  said  the  centurion,  after 
a  pause ;  "  but  I  call  God  to  witness  that  it  was  not  for  my- 
self ;  no,  sooner  would  I  die  a  thousand  times.  I  shed  blood 
to  save  my  child,  —  my  pure  and  spotless  one.  No!  noi 
I  cannot  have  sinned  in  that.  Could  I  give  up  my  darling 
to  these  fiends  ?  " 

"  Sinned  ?  "  cried  Julius,  in  deep  amazement.  "  That 
blow  that  you  struck  for  her  was  the  holiest  and  noblest  act 
of  your  life,  and  I,  for  my  part,  thank  God  that  I  have  lived, 


iiiL^ 


I 


The  Centurion. 


173 


if  only  for  this,  that  I  miglit  striko  a,  blow  in  the  same  cause. 
The  work  that  I  have  done  this  ni-^ht  is  that  which  I  shall 
ever  remember  with  joy.  Could  you  repent  when  you 
recall  that  sweet  girl  as  she  crouched  in  terror  behind  you  ? 
Can  you  dare  to  wish  that  you  had  flung  down  your  sword 
and  ^iiven  her  up  ?     Away  ! " 

Julius  rose  to  his  feet,  ti'embling  with  indignation.  Eubu- 
lus  caught  his  hand  in  both  of  his  own,  and  pressed  it  to  his 
heart. 

"  Noble  friend !  Your  words  give  me  peace.  You  can- 
not know  what  horror  the  thought  of  shedding  blood  can 
cause  the  Christian.  But  you  speak  peace  to  my  con- 
science. No,  —  for  that  sweet  child  I  would  slay  a  score  of 
enemies." 

"And  I  —  a  thousand!"  burst  forth  Julius,  impetuously. 

Eubulus  said  nothing,  but  his  eyes  lighted  up  with  pleas- 
ure as  he  looked  at  the  young  man  who  stood  before  him  in 
his  generous  enthusiasm. 

"I  am  astonished  at  what  you  have  said,"  exclaimed 
Cinoas,  in  unfeigned  surprise.  "The  enemies  of  the  Chris- 
tians charge  them  with  cowardice  and  baseness,  and  what 
greater  baseness  could  there  be  than  this,  that  a  father  should 
quietly  and  without  resistance  give  up  his  own  daughter  to  a 
band  of  ruffians  ?  A  religion  which  teaches  this  cannot  come 
from  God." 

"  Say  no  more,"  said  Eubulus,  "  I  am  ashamed  of  my  own 
feelings.     He  will  forgive  what  I  have  done." 

"  Forgive  !  "  cried  Cineas.  "  Is  that  the  word  ?  —  forgive ! 
He  will  approve  of  it.  He  will  give  you  his  praise.  O 
my  friend,  do  not  abuse  that  religion  of  yours,  which  has  in 
it  so  much  that  is  great  and  pure,  or  else  you  will  make  it 
iniV'nor  to  i)hilosophy,  and  you  will  turn  away  from  it  one 
earnest  soul  that  seeks,  above  all  things,  for  the  truth.  I  rm 
that  one ;  but  if  in  you,  a  Christian,  I  find  such  sentiments 
as  these,  what  can  I  think?  Will  I  not  be  forced  to  think 
16  « 


174 


The  Centurion, 


y  1 


rl 


that  it  is  all  baseness,  and  poverty  of  spirit,  and  abject  mean- 
ness ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  said  Eubulus.  "  If  you  are  an  inquirer  you 
must  not  judf^e  by  me  or  any  other  man.  For  all  men  are 
weak  and  frail.  We  are  full  of  sin  and  iniquity.  Judge 
from  the  words  of  the  Holy  One  himself,  and  from  the.^e 
only ;  not  from  the  sinful  lives  of  his  sinful  followers,  and 
least  of  all  from  me  ;  for  I  am  the  weakest  of  his  servants. 
I  strive  to  do  his  will,  but  I  cannot.  My  life  is  passed  in 
struggles  after  a  better  nature ;  but,  woe  is  me !  my  strug- 
gles seem  to  be  all  in  vain.  And  therefore  my  conscience 
is  tender,  and  I  suspect  sin  in  every  action,  and  I  feel  that 
all  which  I  do  is  sinful ;  but  he  is  my  hope.  He  has  been 
the  hope  of  my  life.  He  will  not  desert  me.  I  trust  in 
him." 

Eubulus  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

The  two  friends  remained  for  some  time  longer,  and  at 
length  took  their  departure.  They  walked  home  in  silence, 
each  filled  witli  his  own  thoughts, — Cineas  wondering  at  this 
new  manifestation  of  tenderness  of  conscience  and  suscepti- 
bility to  remorse,  or  at  least  to  repentance ;  Julius  thinking 
of  nothing  but  that  bright  vision  which  had  dazzled  him,  and 
thrown  a  glorious  radiance  over  the  humble  abode  of  the 
centurion. 


I!n  'I' 


1. 


XVI. 


A  CHRISTIAN  MEETING. 

HE  events  of  this  night  gave  Cineas  a  strong  desire 
to  see  more  of  the  Christians.  He  waited  with 
some  im[)atience  for  that  day  which  tliey  esteemed 
so  sacred,  that  lie  might  go  with  Julius  to  their 
f?'V '^  meeting,  and  see  and  learn  what  it  was  that  ani- 
1?  j|j'  mated  their  hearts,  and  gave  holy  motives  to  all 
W  their  lives.  He  began  to  understand  the  power 
which  their  religion  exerted  over  these  men,  which  made 
them  so  watchful  over  ev;  ry  action,  so  sensitive  to  faults,  so 
quick  to  repentance.  He  wondered  at  this  new  manifesta- 
tion of  human  feeling,  and  thought  that  if  he  himself  were 
thus  to  weigh  every  thought  and  examine  every  action,  he 
mijiiit  find  much  to  condemn,  and  many  things  of  which  he 
might  not  approve.  Philosophy  had  never  shown  this.  He 
hail  never  learned  thus  to  look  in  upon  his  heart  and  test  all 
its  impulses,  and  examine  all  its  emotions.  The  internal 
struggles  which  he  had  experienced  had  all  referred  to  that 
effort  which  he  made  to  separate  himself  from  the  attraction 
of  material  things.  He  had  sought  to  live  an  intellectual 
life,  to  regard  the  world  from  a  philosophical  height,  and 
des[)i3e  its  grosser  cares ;  but  now  he  began  to  discover,  in  a 
(liiii  and  uncertain  way,  a  mightier  task,  —  the  effort  to  make 
ail  tliought  and  feehng  absolutely  pure  and  holy.  Tlse  dis- 
covery at  first  filled  him  with  a  kind  of  dismay,  for  he  fdt 
tliat  this  absolute  purity  of  motive  must  ^  unattainable ;  yet 
be  saw  that  the  ceaseless  effort  after  this  mu>st  of  itself  be 

fl76) 


"(' 


176 


A  Christian  Meeting. 


noble,  and  liave  an  ennobling  (illi-ct  on  all  the  thought  and 
nil  the  lite  of  man. 

All  those  things  only  intensified  his  desire  to  learn  more 
of  the  Christians. 

In  a  few  days  thoy  set  off  once  more.  Julius  had  been 
there  before,  and  knew  the  place.  It  was  an  upper  room  in 
a  large  house  that  overlooked  the  Tiber.  Tlie  ceremony  of 
breaking  broad  had  already  taken  place,  and  the  two  friends 
found  themselves  in  the  midst  of  an  assembly  that  awaited 
further  services. 

It  was  a  large  room,  capable  of  holding  about  a  hundred, 
and  it  was  tilled  with  men,  women,  and  children.  Cincas 
looked  around  with  something  of  surprise  upon  the  bare 
walls,  the  plain,  unadorned  apartment.  The  absence  of  any- 
thing like  statues  or  pictures  satisfied  his  philosophical  soul, 
for  when  the  spirit  offers  worship  to  the  great  Suprc^me,  ma- 
terial forms  are  not  needed.  This  was  what  he  thought.  A 
plain  table  stood  at  the  upper  end  of  the  room,  and  behind 
this  there  were  seated  several  men  of  striking  appearance, 
one  of  whom  took  the  lead  in  the  simple  worship.  He  was 
not  known  to  Cineas,  but  the  people  seemed  to  know  him, 
and  to  love  him  well,  for  they  regarded  him  with  affectionate 
interest,  and  listened  with  the  most  profound  attention  to 
every  word  that  fell  from  his  lips. 

They  began  by  singing  a  hymn,  which  to  the  educated 
and  refined  ears  of  Cineas  seemed  rude  indeed,  and  barbar- 
ous in  metre.  The  people  present  belonged  to  the  lower 
orders,  however,  and  the  verses  were  adapted  to  their  com- 
prehension. These  Christians  knew  little  or  nothing  of  tlie 
refinements  of  the  great  national  poets.  They  understood 
nothing  of  their  rules.  They  had  their  own  vulgar  songs,  and 
their  Christian  hymns  were  formed  in  accordance  with  rules 
not  known  to  ears  polite.  They  had  been  accustomed  to  vul- 
gar rhythms,  where  the  quantitative  metres  of  the  literary 
classes  were  unknown,  and  the  assonance  of  words  was 
loved.    Cineas  listened  to  their  songs,  and  thought  of  the 


flid  tl 
seeni( 

life. 

spokei 


A  Christian  Meeting. 


177 


verses  of  Nero.  For  Ni-ro  hud  only  tried  to  elevjitc  the 
populiir  i'orins,  ;ind  nuiko  rhyme  prevail  Jiinong  the  ucknowl- 
('(lj.'('(l  liiorary  producticiis.  These  Christians  sung  the 
metres  and  tlie  rhymes  whieh  they  understood  and  appreci- 
ated, and  in  their  hymns  they  expressed  the  divine  senti- 
ments of  their  religion,  with  all  its  hope,  and  purity,  and 
devotion,  and  exaltation.  The  hynm  whieh  they  sang  had 
a  chorus  wliiel.  terminated  each  stanza,  and  which  Cineas 
could  not  but  remember  :  — 


•'./e««,  tiU  sit  gloria 
In  scmpiterna  .seecu/a." 


ma- 


After  they  had  sung  this,  the  leader  took  a  scroll  and  be- 
gan to  read. 

It  was  a  lofty  assertion  of  the  highest  and  truest  morality, 
in  words  with  which  Cineas  had  already  become  familiar, 
wiiich  had  afforded  him  material  for  piofound  reHection,  and 
had  fixed  themselves  in  his  memory. 


Uioated 
)arbar- 

lower 
r  com- 

of  the 
erstood 

gs,  and 
th  rules 

to  vul- 

I  literary 

rds  was 

of  the 


"Blessed  are  the  poor  in  spirit;  for  tlieirs  is  tiie  kingdom  of  heaven. 

"Blessed  are  they  that  mourn:  for  tlioy  sliall  be  comforted. 

"  Blessed  are  the  meek;  for  they  shall  inherit  the  earth. 

"Blessed  are  they  which  do  hunger  and  thirst  after  righteousness;  for 
they  shall  be  filled. 

"  Blessed  are  the  merciful;  for  they  shall  obtain  mercy, 

"  Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart;  for  they  shall  see  God. 

"  Blessed  are  the  peace-makers ;  for  tliey  shall  be  called  the  children  of 
God. 

"Blessed  arc  tlu-y  which  are  persecuted  for  righteousness'  sake;  for 
theirs  is  the  kingdom  of  heavrti. 

'"Blessed  are  ye  when  men  .«hall  revile  you,  and  persecute  you,  and  shall 
say  all  manner  of  evil  against  you  falsely  for  my  name's  sake." 

These  words,  and  such  as  these,  and  many  more  like  them, 
(lid  the  leader  read  to  the  congregation,  and  all  present 
seemed  to  hang  with  breathless  suspense  on  these  words  of 
life.  They  were  the  very  words  of  their  Lord.  He  had 
spoken  them,  and  these  followers  of  his  listened  to  them,  fa- 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


V 


/ 


O 


^ 


1.0 


1.25 


|50     ™^ 

1!^  m 


2.5 


2.2 


I.I    i;-  IIIIIM 


1.8 


1.4    IIIIII.6 


V] 


<^ 


/a 


^h 


y 


'S^^^^^J^ 


n. 


V 


<y 


y ..  c^ 


178 


A  Christian  Meeting. 


miliar  though  they  were,  as  they  would  have  listened  to  a 
voice  from  heaven. 

The  deep  meaning  of  these  words  which  Cineas  had  al- 
ready felt,  seemed  to  grow  deeper  as  he  listened  to  them 
now,  under  these  new  circumstances.  He  could  not  help 
comparing  this  meeting  with  the  School  of  Philosophy  which 
he  had  attended  in  his  youth.  He  felt  that  here  there  was 
something  more  divine.  Very  different  were  these  words 
from  the  words  of  Socrates. 

Then  the  leader  stretched  forth  his  hands,  raised  his  head, 
and  began  a  solemn  prayer  to  the  Infinite  God.  He  con- 
fessed many  sins  and  iniquities.  He  implored  forgiveness 
for  the  sake  of  the  One  who  had  died  for  them.  He  prayed 
for  assistance  from  the  Eternal  Spirit,  that  they  all  might 
walk  in  obedience  to  his  will,  and  live  in  holiness.      ' 

All  this  was  new  to  Cineas.  Not  yet  did  he  understand 
this,  or  feel  that  he  could  take  part  i'.i  it.  He  was  conscious 
of  no  guilt.  No  sin  lay  heavy  oti  his  heart.  But  he  was 
disturbed.  If  these  blameless  men  could  thus  feel  imperfec- 
tions and  human  frailties  to  be  sin,  why  should  not  he;  for  he 
in  his  morals  was  no  better  than  they  ?  A  new  standard  of 
action  and  of  thought  seemed  to  arise  before  him,  and  the 
old  self-complacency,  which  he  bad  so  long  cherished,  began 
to  fade  away  at  the  sound  of  this  prayer.  He  began  to  un- 
derstand that  there  could  be  such  a  thing  as  love  for  God, 
and  life-long  service,  and  heart-felt  devotion,  and  all-absorb- 
ing zeal,  —  to  all  of  which  he  was  yet  a  stranger.  There 
was  a  knowledge  of  God  very  different  from  that  which  he 
possessed,  and  a  love  of  God  very  far  removed  from  that 
vague  sentiment  which  he  had  cherished.  All  these  things 
forced  themselves  upon  his  mind. 

But,  at  last,  the  simple  service  ended,  and  the  little  congre- 
gation departed,  and  Cineas  walked  away  with  Julius,  agi- 
tated by  many  new  thoughts. 


XVII. 


THE  END  OF  PROPHECr. 

F  Cineas  had  sought  an  interview  with  Paul,  it 
might  perhaps  have  produced  some  change  in  his 
feelings.  As  it  was,  he  remained  unchanged.  The 
manuscript  had  deeply  impressed  him,  but  he  re- 
mained unconvinced.  His  keen,  subtle,  and  specu- 
lative mind  led  him  to  scrutinize  everything  care- 
fully and  ask  —  why  ? 
Helena  did  not  try  to  convince  him,  for  she  knew  the  at- 
tempt would  be  useless.  She  contented  herself  with  talking 
of  the  hapi)iness  which  she  found  in  her  belief.  It  had  re- 
moved her  old  fears,  and  given  a  charm  to  the  future.  Now, 
at  last,  she  knew  how  to  pray,  and  how  to  praise.  Uncon- 
sciously, while  refraining  from  argument,  she  was  exhibiting 
to  her  brother  something  that  was  more  efficaciods  than  all 
arguments,  —  the  sight  of  one  who  actually  felt  love  for  God. 
For  as  Cineas  looked  at  her,  and  thought  of  the  change  that 
had  taken  place  in  her  heart,  and  compared  her  present  peace 
with  her  former  despondency,  he  felt  that  she  had  gained 
something  which  he  did  not  possess.  She  had,  in  fact,  gained 
that  very  thing  for  which  he  sought,  —  firm  faith,  sure  faith, 
absolute  knowledge  of  God  and  love  for  him.  And  he 
wished  that  he  could  be  like  her. 

Yet  the  intellectual  belief  of  a  philosopher  could  not 
readily  obey  the  mei'c  wish  of  the  heart,  and  so  Cineas  de- 
sired to  draw  near  to  Christ,  but  evermore  his  reason  inter- 
posed, and  raised  obstacles,  and  pushed  him  baek. 

He  found  an  unfading  charm  in  the  manuscript  of  the 

(179) 


-'r'<»T-^—-^^f^'ry,tpir 


i8o 


T/ie  End  of  Prophecy. 


Christians,  anu  as  he  read  it  he  owned  to  himself  at  last,  that 
that  there  was  more  in  this  little  volume  than  he  had  found 
in  all  the  works  of  Plato.  It  was  direct.  It  spoke  to  the 
heart.  He  found  himself  gradually  thinking  the  thoughts 
that  arose  out  of  this  book,  and  appiopriating  the  phrase- 
ology. He  talked  with  Helena  about  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven  ;  about  God  the  Father  of  all,  and  about  Holiness. 

Of  that  holiness  there  entered  into  his  mind  a  pure  and 
perfect  ideal,  more  elevated  and  more  divine  than  all  the  con- 
ceptions of  philosophy,  and  he  found  that  his  ideal  assumed 
the  form  of  that  mysterious  Being  of  whom  this  book  spoke. 
Socrates,  with  his  irony,  departed  from  his  mind,  and  in  his 
place  there  came  Christ,  with  his  love  and  his  tears.  He 
began  to  see  in  him,  that  for  which  all  the  good  and  wise 
among  the  philosophers  had  sought  so  long ;  and  the  search 
for  which  they  had  transmitted  down  through  so  many  ages 
—  the  perfect  Good,  and  perfect  Fair.  All  this  seemed  to 
him  to  live  in  Christ. 

But,  after  all,  he  was  not  yet  so  near  the  actual  adoption 
of  the  Christian  faith  as  might  be  supposed.  All  these 
thoughts  were  intellectual.  His  taste  was  affected.  Chris- 
tianity appeared  in  an  aesthetic  light.  His  heart  was  moved 
by  the  sorrows  of  the  great  Sufferer,  but  it  was  not  at  all 
moved  by  any  emotion  of  repentance  or  contrition.  He  had 
no  belief  in  his  own  sin.  The  self-complacency  which  he 
had  always  felt  still  remained.  Why  should  he  repent? 
What  had  he  to  repent  of?  What  confession  could  he  make  ? 
He  could  pray  to  God  for  enlightenment,  but  not  for  pardon. 

One  thing  he  did  believe  most  firmly,  and  that  was  that  if 
the  sacred  writings  of  the  Jews  had  any  lofty  meaning,  then 
all  that  meaning  must  be  sought  for  in  Christ.  To  accept 
Christ  cas  the  result  of  the  Jewish  scriptures,  was  to  him  al- 
most to  make  those  seriptui'es  divine.  Besides  such  an  in- 
terpretation as  this,  the  theories  of  Isaac  were  puerile  and 
vulgar.  In  a  spiritual  interpretation  he  saw  the  truest  and 
the  sublimest  philosophy.  ;        ; 


The  End  of  Prophecy. 


i8i 


He  hinted  this  once  to  Isaac. 

"  Cannot  your  Messiah,"  he-  asked,  "  of  whom  you  speak 
so  much,  be,  after  all,  as  I  have  sugg(v>ted  before,  a  holy 
Prophet  —  a  Teacher  —  one  who  will  try  to  make  your  peo- 
ple purer  in  heart,  and  better  in  life  ?  This  I  think  would 
be  an  act  more  worthy  of  God,  than  U)  send  a  king  or  a 
general  who  would  only  shed  the  blood  of  men." 

♦'  Never,"  cried  Isaac,  vehemently,  and  with  all  the  fervid 
passion  which  invariably  showed  itself  when  such  a  thing 
was  hinted  at.  "  Never.  No,  no,  a  thousand  times  no.  The 
promises  of  God  are  true  and  righteous,  and  they  will  be 
fulfilled.  They  are  literal  or  they  are  nothing.  He  will  not 
thus  mock  those  who  for  ages  have  put  their  trust  in  him. 
He  has  promised  us  this  thing  as  we  undei'stand  it,  in  the 
most  direct  and  unmistakable  language ;  for  ages  we  have 
waited,  and  believed,  and  hoped.  Prophet  after  prophet  has 
come,  and  each  succeeding  one  has  spoken  in  the  same  lan- 
guage, and  confirmed  our  hope  for  the  Deliverer.  As  he 
is  faithful  and  true,  so  will  he  not  deceive  his  own  people. 

"  He  has  promised  before,  many  and  many  a  time,  both 
for  good  and  evil,  and  every  promise  has  been  fulfilled.  He 
promised  to  our  fathers,  when  they  were  slaves  in  the  land 
of  Egypt,  that  he  would  lead  them  to  a  fair  and  fertile  land  ; 
and  he  did  so.  They  wandered  for  years,  amid  suffering 
and  calamity,  but,  nevertheless,  they  reached  the  Promised 
Land  at  last.  He  promised  victory  o^  er  many  enemies  at 
different  times  ;  and  the  victory  always  came.  He  threat- 
ened division  of  the  kingdom ;  and  the  kingdom  was  divided. 
He  threatened  subjugation  by  an  enemy,  and  long  captivity  ; 
and  the  subjugation  and  the  captivity  came.  He  promised 
deliverance  from  this  captivity  ;  and  the  deliverance  came. 

"  All  these  were  unmistakable  promises,  not  intended 
to  refer  to  some  dark,  spiritual  fulfilment,  but  to  a  c'irect  lit- 
eral one,  and  that  direct  literal  fulfilment  every  one  of  them 
met  with. 

"  And  now,  when  I  look  at  the  great  promise  that  stands 
16 


t82 


The  End  of  Prophecy. 


supreme  among  all  promises,  through  all  ages,  coming  down 
from  our  first  father,  Abr-^ham,  what  is  that  I  see  ?  Can  I 
see  anything  else  than  this,  that  if  anything  be  literal,  this 
must  be  so  more  than  any  other  ?  Will  He  who  led  his 
people  on  through  such  sorrows,  and  so  afflicted  them,  thus 
trifle  with  them,  and  show  that  thus  through  all  their  history 
he  has  amused  them  with  an  empty  shadow  —  a  vain  hope 
—  an  idle  tale  ?  What  to  us,  in  our  slavery,  is  a  mere 
proi)het  wort''  ?  We  have  had  prophets.  We  want  no 
more.  We  want  Him,  of  whom  all  the  prophets  spake ;  to 
whom  they  pointed  and  whom  they  promised.  We  want 
Him  to  come  and  sit  upon  the  throne  of  David  in  Jerusalem, 
not  to  teach,  but  to  reign.  We  are  weary  with  waiting,  and 
praying,  and  hoping,  and  longing.  We  are  weary  and 
broken-hearted.  Oh  thou  long-expected  One !  come  quickly. 
Take  thy  throne.  Reign  till  all  enemies  are  put  under  thy 
feet. 

"  But  why  do  I  fear  ?  I  tell  you,"  cried  Isaac,  with  start- 
ling emphasis,  "that  He  will  come,  and  begin  his  reign. 
The  time  is  at  hand.  All  things  denote  his  approach.  You 
yourself  will  live  to  see  him,  and  that  very  soon." 

Cineas  expressed  his  surprise  at  this,  and  asked  Isaac  to 
explain. 

"  In  our  prophecies,"  said  Isaac,  "  the  great  One  is  not 
only  promised,  but  the  time  of  his  coming  is  also  told.  For 
ages  our  priests  have  calculated  the  time  of  that  appearance, 
and  naturally  enough,  they  at  first  made  it  come  at  an  ear- 
lier period  than  was  said.  Each  generation  loved  to  think 
that  the  prophecy  was  to  be  fulfilled  in  its  own  day.  For 
the  last  thirty  or  forty  years  the  people  have  expected  his 
appearance  every  day.  False  Messiahs  have  apj)eared,  bas- 
ing their  pretensions  on  this  prophecy,  and  sometimes  thoy 
have  gained  many  followers.  But  they  were  all  wrong.  In 
their  fond  expectation  they  put  a  forced  construction  on  the 
words  of  our  sacred  writings.  This  is  the  reason  why  they 
have  been  so  often  disappointed.       .. 


The  End  of  Prophecy. 


183 


"  But  now  tlic  time  i.>5  at  hand  in  literal  truth.  The  mis- 
take wliich  our  fathers  made  need  not  be  made  now.  We 
have  the  record  of  the  holy  proidicts,  and  the  plain  state- 
ment of  the  time  of  his  appearance,  from  which  any  one  who 
can  calculate  may  see  for  himself  that  this  is  the  hour. 
These  calcidations  I  have  made  over  and  over,  jealous  of 
enor,  jealous  of  my  own  wishes,  lest  they  should  l(;ad 
me  astray,  and  I  have  come  to  this  conclusion,  that  this  is 
the  very  latest  possible  period  at  which  he  can  arrive.  He 
must  come  now  or  never.  If  he  does  not  come  now  within 
five,  or  perhaps  ten  years,  then  he  will  never  come,  or  the 
prophecy  will  be  all  wrong,  all  deceit,  all  mockery  of  the 
worst  and  most  cruel  kind.  But  as  God  cannot  deceive,  so 
must  this  word  of  his  be  all  fulfilled." 

Cineas  listened  quietly.  He  had  no  curiosity  to  examine 
the  calculations  of  Isaac,  for  he  was  more  than  ever  con- 
vinced that  it  was  all  a  mistake.  He  had  no  sympathy  with 
the  narrow  prejudice  of  the  Jew,  and  could  only  wonder  at 
the  death-like  tenacity  with  which  Isaac  clung  to  his  idea. 

"  All  the  land  feels  the  power  of  his  presence,"  continued 
Isaac.  "  The  people  know  that  he  is  near.  They  rise  to 
meet  him ;  they  are  sure  that  he  will  come.  A  mighty 
movement  is  beginning,  and  all  the  land  trembles  beneath 
the  deep  hum  of  preparation." 

"  How  are  they  preparing  ?  "  asked  Cineas. 

"  With  arms,  and  for  war,"  cried  Isaac,  fiercely.  "  For 
they  are  slaves,  and  they  feel  that  if  they  would  meet  the 
Deliverer  in  a  fitting  manner,  they  must  be  free,  and  must 
themselves  strike  the  first  blow.  And  any  one  who  has  lived 
ill  Judea  koows  this,  that  of  all  men  the  Jews  are  those  who 
will  dare  the  most,  and  achieve  the  most.  War  must  come. 
It  is  inevitable.  The  oppression  of  the  Romans  has  become 
unendurable.  If  the  Jews  were  a  more  patient  race,  even 
tiien  thoy  might  have  cause  to  rise  for  mere  revenge.  But 
they  are  of  all  men  least  patient,  and  they  mean  to  rise,  not  for 
revenge,  but  for  freedom,  and  for  whatever  else  that  freedom 


liBl 


184 


The  End  of  Profhecy. 


. 


may  lead  to.  They  are  all  filled  with  the  same  desire,  and 
move  to  the  same  impulse,  and  there  is  not  a  man,  —  a  man 
do  I  say  ?  there  is  not  a  woman,  there  is  not  a  child,  who 
is  not  ready  to  face  all  things,  and  undergo  death  itself. 
AVhence  comes  this  feeling,  this  passion,  so  universal,  so  des- 
iderate ?  It  is  not  all  human  or  national,  it  rises  in  obedience 
t(t  a  deeper  impulse  than  mere  patriotism.  It  is  divine  !  It 
comes  from  above.  It  is  sent  by  God.  It  is  his  time.  It  is 
the  hour  long  hoped  for,  but  long  delayed,  expected  through 
the  ages,  waited  for  with  prayer  and  tears,  and  now  it  corner, 
and  he  makes  his  presence  felt,  and  he  is  there  in  that 
holy  land,  breathing  his  power  into  the  hearts  of  the  people, 
that  so  he  may  arouse  them,  and  inspire  them  with  a  holy 
purpose,  and  a  desperate  resolve,  before  which  all  mere  hu- 
man feelings  shall  be  weak  and  futile.  He  will  first  make 
the  people  worthy  of  their  high  mission,  and  then  he  vill 
send  the  Messiah." 

"  You  speak  of  God  causing  all  this  excitement  of  feeling," 
said  Cineas,  *'  of  which  I  have  heard.  What  do  you  think 
the  Supreme  One  may  design  in  all  this"  — 

"  First  our  freedom,"  said  Isaac,  interrupting  him,  —  "  that, 
first  of  all.  I  believe  that  it  is  his  will  that  the  people 
whom  he  has  so  often  delivered  before,  shall  be  delivered 
yet  again." 

"  Do  you  understand  fully  against  what  power  they  will 
have  to  fight  ?  "  asked  Cineas.  "  You  are  not  a  Jewish 
peasant.  You  have  travelled  over  all  the  world.  You 
have  lived  in  Rome.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  the  power 
of  Rome.  Can  you  conceive  it  possible  that  one  of  the 
smallest  of  the  provinces  can  shake  off  the  mighty  yoke  of 
Csesar,  or  that  your  people  can  wage  a  successful  war  against 
the  world  ?  " 

"  With  God  all  things  are  possible,"  said  Isaac. 

"Yes,  but  in  the  course  of  human  affairs,  have  you  not 
usually  noticed  this  fact,  that  the  weaker  people  must  be 


The  End  of  Prophecy. 


i8S 


conquered  by  an  overwhelming  force,  no  matter  how  just 
their  cause  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Isaac,  drily.  "  Tiie  Greeks  did  not  think  so 
when  Persia  sent  her  innymerable  hosts  against  them." 

"True,"  said  Cineas,  "but  the  Persians  were  inferior  to 
the  Greeks.  Those  same  Greeks  afterwards  marched  ail 
tliroun;h  Asia,  and  found  out  their  weakness.  The  Romans 
are  different.  They  conquered  Greece  and  thought  it  a 
very  easy  matter.  Is  there  a  people  on  earth  who  can  with- 
stand the  legions  of  Caesar  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Isaac,  "  that  people  who  have  God  on  their 
side  can  overcome  even  the  legions  of  Ca;sar.  In  our  past 
history  we  have  done  things  as  great  as  this.  That  history 
is  full  of  such  victories  against  overwhelming  odds.  The 
nation  grew  and  developed  itself  in  the  midst  of  powerful 
enemies.  The  Jews  have  more  than  once  fought  success- 
fully against  monarchs  who  were  masters  of  the  world.  They 
have  lived,  and  they  have  seen  in  the  course  of  ages,  the  rise 
and  fall  of  many  empires.  They  have  seen  the  rise  of 
Rome  ;  they  will  see  its  full." 

"Its  fall!" 

"Why  not?  Is  Rome  bey  jnd  the  reach  of  reverse  ?  Are 
the  Romans  gods^  C.mt  they  should  be  forever  free  from  ad- 
versity ?  They  have  lived  their  life,  and  have  done  their 
work.     Their  time  is  over." 

"  When  a  Roman  army  enters  Judea,  I  fear  you  will  find 
that  her  strength  is  as  great  as  ever." 

"  I  can  understand  the  unbelief  of  a  Greek,"  said  Isaac. 
"In  your  history  all  is  human.  Ours  is  divine.  All  our 
liistory  is  the  work  of  God.  We  have  lived  through  a  suc- 
cession of  miracles.  He  chose  us  out  from  among  all  na- 
tions. He  has  been,  our  God  when  all  the  gods  of  the  na- 
tions were  idols.  He  has  saved  us  from  all  enemies,  and  he 
will  save  us  again. 

"  But,"  he  continued,  "  even  from  your  own  point  of  view, 
a  rebellion  is  not  as  desperate  a  thing  as  you  suppose.  Do 
16* 


I 


186 


The  End  of  Prophecy, 


i 


you  know  the  nutiiiu  ol'  the  country  ?  It  is  filled  with  moun- 
tains and  dangerous  passes,  and  commanding  positions,  each 
one  of  which  may  be  made  a  Thermopylte.  The  principal 
towns  are  situated  in  places  which  give  them  inconceivable 
strength,  so  that  if  they  are  well  supplied  with  provisions, 
they  can  hold  out  against  attack  for  an  indefinite  period. 
Above  all,  Jerusalem  is  most  strongly  situated.  If  the  peo- 
ple have  provisions  enough  they  can  withstand  a  siege  for- 
ever.    Mountains  are  all  around.     Its  walls  rise  over  \\vA\ 

0 

precipices.     It  is  distant  from  the  coast." 

"  But  if  the  people  have  not  provisions  enough,  what 
then?" 

"  No  8i(!ge  could  last  long  enough  to  bring  on  a  famine  ? " 
said  Isaac,  confidently.  "  The  defenders  of  the  city  would 
keep  the  besiegers  in  a  constant  state  of  alarm.  The  tre- 
mendous sweep  of  the  Jewish  battle  charge  would  drive 
them  off.  Besides,  while  the  Jews  might  suffer,  the  enemy 
would  suffer  none  the  less.  All  the  country  would  be  filled 
with  a  hostile  and  fierce  population.  Supplies  of  provisions 
could  not  be  maintained.  Tliey  would  be  cut  off  in  their 
way.  If  the  besieging  army  had  ample  supplies  always  at 
hand,  even  then  it  could  not  take  Jeru.'^alem ;  but  with  my 
knowledge  of  the  country  and  its  inhabitants,  I  consider  that 
no  army  could  be  fed  before  Jerusalem,  if  the  peo{)le  are 
unanimous  in  their  determination  to  make  war.  If  Jerusa- 
lem starves,  the  besieging  army  must  starve  also,  and  at  such 
a  game  it  is  easy  to  see  which  side  would  give  up  first. 
The  Jews  could  die  of  famine,  gladly  if  it  were  necessary ; 
but  the  besieging  army  could  not  be  supported  in  such  a  dire 
extremity." 

"  But  before  famine  could  come  to  that  besieging  army, " 
said  Cineas,  "the  Roman  engines  would  have  some  work 
to  do." 

"  Ay,  and  hard  work,  too.  For  all  the  Roman  engines 
the  Jews  could  find  fire,  and  few  would  get  up  to  the  walls. 
What  then  ?     1  believe  the  chief  fighting  would  be  outside 


The  End  of  Prophecy. 


187 


at 


the  walls,  and  the  fate  of  the  city  decided  without  the  inter- 
vention of  battering  rams.  But  why  talk  of  these  things? 
They  are  all  nothing.  The  Jews  have  that  to  rely  on  of 
which  the  world  knows  nothing.  For  ages  they  have  looked 
up  to  God.  The  smallest  child  reverences  the  spiritual 
Being.  He  knows  nothing  of  idols.  The  poorest  peasant 
prays  to  his  unseen  Creator.  He  believes  in  him.  He  trusts 
in  him.  That  One  in  whom  they  ill  so  believe  and  trust, 
ir!  worthy  of  this  confidence,  and  will  show  himself  so.  I 
cannot  reason  about  the  probabilities  of  the  conflict,  and 
shut  my  eyes  to  him.  With  him  the  decision  will  rest. 
And  can  I  believe  that  he  will  decide  against  his  own  ?  " 

"  But  suppose  the  Jews  do  get  their  freedom,  what  then  ? 
Is  there  a  wider  dominion  in  these  hopes  ?" 

"  There  is,"  said  Isaac,  calmly. 

"What?" 

"The  world." 

"  You  believe  that  the  end  of  all  thi>  acts  of  God  is  to 
make  Jerusalem  the  capital  of  the  world  ?  " 

"  Most  devoutly  ;  most  devoutly,"  ejaculated  Isaac  ;  "  I 
have  told  you  this  before,  and  I  now  affirm  my  belief  with 
fresh  emphasis." 

"It  is  worthy  of  Him,"  said  Isaac,  after  u  pause  ;  "most 
worthy  of  him.  The  Jews,  his  chosen  people,  alone  have 
the  knowledge  of  him.  All  the  rest  of  mankind  know 
him  not.  Is  it  not  worthy  of  him  that  he  should  design 
to  make  himself  known  over  all  the  world  as  he  is  now 
among  the  Jews  ?  Would  not  the  world  be  blessed  indeed 
if  it  worshipped  the  one  Supreme  God  ?  Now,  all  the  world 
is  idolatrous.  The  conquest  of  the  world  by  the  Jews  is 
something  more  than  ^  succession  of  con-mon  victories,  and 
means  something  greater  than  a  common  empii'e,  with  taxes 
and  tribute.  It  means  the  extension  of  the  knowledge  of 
God,  so  that  all  mankind  may  learn  that  he  is  their  Father, 
and  love  him,  and  worship  him  as  such.  For  this  he  calls 
on  us  to  rise.     For  this  he  is  about  to  send  us  our  great 


i88 


The  End  of  Prophecy. 


Leader,  before  vvliom  all  the  armies  of  Rome  will  be  broken 
in  pieces,  and  all  the  nations  of  the  earth  bow  the  knee. 
This  is  worthy  of  God." 

"  But  at  what  a  cost !  "  said  Cineas.  "  Blood,  and  fire, 
and  devastation,  and  plundered  cities,  and  blazing  villages. 
Wheat  kind  of  a  Being  is  this  who  thus  seeks  to  make  man 
worship  him  ?  " 

"  The  world  may  suffer,"  said  Isaac,  "  but  what  then  ?  Tt 
will  suffer  that  it  may  be  blessed.  One  generation  shall  en- 
dure misery  that  all  the  future  may  receive  true  ha[)piness. 
One  march,  and  one  conquest,  and  all  is  over.  He  shall 
reign  whose  right  it  is  to  reign.  He  shall  have  dominion 
from  sea  to  sea,  and  from  the  rivers  unto  the  ends  of  the 
earth ! " 

Cineas  said  nothing.  He  saw  how  Isaac  had  moulded  his 
whole  soul  to  this  one  thought,  and  as  it  was  repulsive,  be- 
yond all  others,  to  himself,  he  chose  to  drop  the  subject. 

But  after  that  conversation  he  looked  with  new  interest 
toward  the  land  of  Judea,  anxious  to  hear  the  news  that 
came  from  that  quarter,  and  to  see  if  rebellion  were  really 
so  imminent  as  Isaac  said. 


.'  ■    <■■ 


XVIII. 


>•  ■, 


THE  BRITON. 

f^S  INEAS  had  advanced  thus  far,  that  he  could  recog- 
'  ■  MM  nize  the  wondrous  sweetness  and  beauty  of  Chris- 
il  ^ffl  tianity.  He  was  surrounded  by  those  who  offered  to 
^^^^  him  its  fairest  manifestations.  The  venerable  nurse, 
who  had  now  regained  all  her  former  calm  ;  and  He- 
lena, who  no  longer  had  any  spiritual  doubts  or  fears ; 
and  Marcus,  whose  whole  life  had  been  passed 
amidst  the  purest  influences ;  all  showed  him  how  blessed  a 
thing  that  religion  was,  which  taught  man  to  look  up  to  his 
maker,  not  with  fear  or  doubt,  but  with  affection  and  confi- 
dence. He  saw,  also,  that  Julius  was  about  to  join  them. 
Something  had  strengthened  those  tendencies  toward  Chris- 
tianity which  he  had  for  a  long  time  manifested;  his  at- 
tendance at  their  meetings  was  constant ;  his  manner  had 
changed ;  and  some  deep  and  solemn  purpose  lay  in  his 
soul.  All  these  things  which  he  saw  every  day,  appealed 
to  his  feelings,  and  he  was  compelled  to  reason  down  those 
feelings,  and  guard  against  them,  lest  they  should  carry  him 
away  beyond  his  positive  belief.  > 

Nothing  had  a  stronger  effect  upon  him  than  the  words  of 
Marcus.  He  used  to  listen  in  wonder  to  that  slender,  spir- 
itual boy  as  he  talked  of  God,  his  Father,  and  of  heaven ; 
things  unknown  to  all  boys  whom  Cineas  had  ever  seen,  but 
familiar  to  the  mind  of  this  singular  being,  who  indeed, 
sometimes,  when  talking  of  these  things,  had  such  a  radiant 
face,  and  such  a  glory  around  his  brows,  that  hp  seemed  him- 

(189) 


¥ 


190 


The  Briton. 


self  to  have  known  something  of  the  world  of  which  he  Iced 
to  speak. 

He  still  maintained  his  friendship  for  the  Briton  with  un- 
diminished  ardor,  and  still  at  ahnost  any  hour  of  the  day 
these  two  strange  friends  n'ight  be  seen  together,  in  the  por- 
tico, or  in  the  garden,  sometimes  hand  in  hand,  while  at  oth- 
er tin.'is  Galdus  carried  him  on  his  broad  shoulders. 

iNIarcus  loved  to  talk  to  Galdus  of  that  which  occupied  jo 
much  of  Ills  tliought.  lie  talked  with  him  about  everything, 
and  of  this  not  the  least.  The  Briton  attached  but  a  very 
indistinct  meaning  to  what  he  heard,  but  he  always  listened 
attentively,  and  admiringly.  To  such  conversations  Cineas 
was  not  unfrequently  a  listener,  and  it  made  him  wonder  still 
more  to  see  a  child  tjdking  about  spiritual  subjects  to  a  bar- 
barian. About  ucli  things  philosCjdiers  might  speculate, 
but  here  the  Supreme  Being  had  made  his  great  presence 
felt  in  the  heart  of  a  child.  About  that  Being  the  Briton 
had  but  dim  and  indistinct  ideas.  '^le  always  thought  of 
him  s(Mnehow  in  connection  with  Marcus,  as  though  this  an- 
gelic boy  were  of  some  heavenly  nature,  and  therefore  nearer 
to  th<^  Divine.  For  when  Marcus  tried  to  tell  what  the 
Great  One  was,  the  Briton  could  find  nothing  that  realized 
the  description  in  his  mind  so  well  as  the  boy  himself. 

To  such  a  conversation  Cineas  listened  one  day,  when  he 
stood  on  the  portico,  and  the  boy  and  his  companion  were 
seated  on  the  grass  before  a  broad  pool,  from  the  midst  of 
whieh  a  wide  jet  of  water  burst  upward  into  the  air,  and  fell 
in  clouds  of  spray  baek  again  into  the  basin. 

"  Only  see,"  said  Marcus,  "  that  golden  glittering  spray ! 
and  behind  it  there  is  a  rainbow,  and  the  water  in  the  ba- 
sin looks  like  silver.  When  we  get  to  heaven  I  suppose 
all  will  be  golden  like  this,  only  brighter." 

"  It  ought  to  be  all  golden  and  bright  where  you  go," 
said  Galdus,  admiringly,  "  and  even  then  it  will  not  be  good 
enough  for  y^u.     But  that  world  is  for  you,  not  for  me." 


The  Briton, 


191 


"  Not  for  you  ?  Why  not  ?  Yes  it  is,  for  you  as  well  as 
for  me.     I  want  you  there  "  — 

"  No,  no,  I'm  a  barbarian,  —  you  are  like  a  god." 

"  A  god !  I  am  only  a  child,  but  I  hope  to  go  there,  for 
children  are  loved  and  welcomed  there,  and  don't  you  wish 
to  go  there  ?  " 

"  I  wish  it,  but  I  must  go  elsewhere." 

«  Elsewhere ! " 

"  Yes,  to  live  again  as  a  warrior,  or  perhaps  as  an  animal. 
Who  knows  ?     I  don't." 

"  To  live  again !  Yes,  but  not  here,  not  as  a  warrior. 
No,  you  too  shall  be  an  angel,  in  that  golden  world,  if  you 
only  wish  to,  and  try  to.     Don't  you  wish  to  ?  " 

"  I  wish  to  be  with  you,"  said  Galdus,  lovingly,  taking  the 
thin  white  hand  of  Marcus  in  both  of  his,  and  looking  at  him 
with  adoring  fondness. 

«  Don't  you  love  God  ?  " 

"  You  are  my  God." 

"  0  Galdus  !  Don't  dare  to  say  that.  Only  one  is  God. 
Don't  you  love  him  ?  " 

"  I  know  nothing  about  him.     I  fear  him." 

«  Fear  him  ! " 

"Yes,  all  that  I  ever  heard  about  one  God,  or  many 
gods,  makes  me  fear  one  and  all.  They  are  all  fierce  and 
torrible.  Let  me  keep  away  from  them  all,  and  be  near 
you." 

"  You  do  not  know  him  then,"  said  Marcus,  in  mournful 
accents. 

"  Those  who  know  him  best,  fear  him  most." 

"Who?" 

"  The  Druids.  They  are  our  priests.  They  are  the  only 
ones  who  tell  us  of  him." 

"  They  don't  know  him,"  said  Marcus,  positively. 

"  Why  not  ?  They  are  wise,  venerable  men,  with  gray 
hair,  and  long  white  beards.  They  live  in  groves,  and  some- 
Umes  see  him,  and  he  tells  them  what  he  wants." 


II 


IQ2 


The  JJriton. 


'*  And  if  he  does,  do  you  not  know  how  good  he  is  ?  " 

"Good!     He  is  terrible." 

"Terrible!  how?" 

"  He  thirsts  for  blood.  Nothing  but  blood.  I  have  seen 
my  own  brother  laid  on  a  stone,  and  the  priest  plunge  his 
sharp  knife  in  his  throat." 

Marcus  shuddered,  and  looking  earjestly  at  the  Briton, 
asked,  — 

"  Why,  what  do  these  mui'derers  do  that  for  ?  " 

"  Because  he  wants  blood.  I  have  seen  worse  than  this. 
I  have  seen  a  great  cage  filled  with  men,  women,  and  cliil- 
dren,  and  these  priests  kindled  fires  around  it  and  burned 
them  all  up." 

Marcus  moaned,  and  hid  his  face  against  the  breast  of  the 
Briton. 

"  0  horror ! "  he  cried  at  last,  "  what  do  they  mean  by 
this  ?  What  do  they  think  ?  Do  they  think  they  know 
him  ?  Wliat  do  they  think  he  is  ?  It  is  not  God  that 
they  worship.  It  is  the  devil.  He  tells  them  lies.  He  is 
the  one  that  M'ants  blood." 

"  Whoever  it  is,"  said  Galdus,  quietly,  "  that  is  what  they 
do,  and  that  is  why  I  fear  him,  and  think  him  terrible." 

"  But  this  is  all  wrong,"  said  Marcus,  passionately.  "They 
do  not  know  him.  He  loVes  us.  He  hates  blood.  These 
dreadful  things  are  dreadful  to  him." 

"  Loves  us  ?  "  repeated  Galdus,  slowly. 

«  Yes." 

"  I  don't  understand.  He  sends  thunder  and  lightning, 
and  stoi'ms,  and  tempests.  How  can  he  love  us  ?  When  I 
hear  the  thunder  I  fear  him  most." 

"  And  I,"  said  Marcus,  "  have  no  fear,  for  I  know  how 
good  he  is.  Why  should  I  fear  the  thunder  ?  He  gives  us 
food  and  light,  and  the  sweet  flowers,  and  the  bright  sun- 
shine.    That  shows  what  care  he  takes  of  us." 

"  I  didn't  think  of  that,"  said  Galdus,  slowly. 

"  And  then,  you  know,  he  has  been  here.     He  wished  to 


The  Briton, 


'^9Z 


take  us  all  to  heaven,  and  so  he  came  and  lived  among  us 
—  and  died.     Haven't  I  often  told  you  this  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  don't  understand  it,"  said  Galdus,  with  a  be- 
wildered air.  "  You  are  different  from  me.  I  learned  to 
fear  him,  and  now,  when  you  tell  me  such  things  as  these, 
I  think  they  were  done  for  you  and  not  for  me." 

"  For  all,"  said  Marcus,  in  a  sweet,  low  voice.  "  He  went 
about  all  the  time  among  poor  people,  and  sick  people,  and 
little  children,  and  spoke  kind  words,  and  when  he  saw  any 
one  suffering,  he  at  once  went  there  and  comforted  him." 

"  As  you  did  to  me,"  said  Galdus,  with  glistening  eyes 
and  tremulous  voice,  "  in  that  place  when  I  lay  struck  down 
by  a  coward,  and  all  men  le/'  me  to  myself,  where  they  had 
thrown  me,  as  if  I  were  a  dog ;  and  you  came  with  your  fair 
face,  and  I  looked  up  and  thought  I  saw  a  vision.  For  you 
stood  with  tears  in  your  eyes ;  and  then  I  first  heard  your 
dear  sweet  voice,  and  you  spoke  pityingly,  as  a  mother  might 
speak,  and  I  was  astonished ;  '  ut  I  worshipped  you  in  my 
heart.  "When  you  talk  to  m  ^  of  your  God,  and  tell  me  how 
he  came  to  the  poor  and  the  uffering,  then  I  think  of  you 
as  you  came  there,  and  I  see  r.  ^thing  but  you.  I  know  not 
your  God.  I  know  mine.  You  are  my  God,  and  I  worship 
you." 

And  the  rude,  strong  Briton  pressed  Marcus  in  his  arms 
strongly,  yet  tenderly ;  and  the  boy  felt  the  beating  of  the 
stout  heart  in  that  giant  frame,  which  now  was  shaken  with 
emotion,  and  he  knew  how  strong  a  hold  he  had  on  the  affec- 
tion of  that  fierce  and  rugged  nature. 

"  You  love  me,  dear  Galdus,  and  I  know  it  well,  but  don't 
say  that  I  am  your  God.  I  love  you,  but  there  is  One  that 
loves  you  better." 

"  No,  no,  —  that  is  impossible.  I  know  how  you  love  me. 
And  you  have  made  me  forget  my  country." 

"  He  loves  you,"  said  Marcus,  with  childish  persistency. 
"  He  will  give  you  a  better  country." 

"  I  cannot  think  of  Him.     You  are  the  only  one  that  I 
17 


/ 


I  ■4" 


194 


The  Briton. 


% 


can  think  of,  when  you  talk  of  love,  and  piety,  and  srch 
things." 

"  Oh,  if  you  only  knew  him,  and  could  think  of  him  as 
I  do,"  said  Marcus,  "  then  you  would  love  him,  and  you 
would  know  that  an^^thing  that  I  have  done  is  nothing  to  all 
that  he  has  done !  If  T  came  to  you  when  you  were  so 
wounded  and  suffering,  be  sure  that  it  was  because  he  sent 
me  there  to  you.  Re  was  there,  but  you  ud  not  see  him. 
He  has  done  far  more  than  this,  too ;  he  has  died  for  you,  to 
make  you  love  him,  and  bring  you  to  heaven  at  last." 

"  That  is  the  way  you  always  talk,"  said  Galdus,  "  but  I 
cannot  see  how  it  is.     I  don't  understand  it." 

So  they  spake,  and  still,  as  Marcus  told  his  childish  faith, 
Galdus  could  only  say  that  he  did  not  understand.  To  all 
this  Cineas  listened,  and  marvelled  much,  and  wondered 
where  the  boy  had  obtained  that  deep  conviction  which  he 
expressed,  speaking  of  it  always  as  he  would  speak  of  some 
self-evident  truth,  something  which  he  had  always  known, 
and  supposed  all  other  men  knew  as  well  as  he. 


XIX. 


f! 


AT  COURT. 


HE  fortunes  of  Labeo  had  been  advancing  in  the 
meanwhile.  Some  time  before  Nero  had  given  liim 
a  tribuneship,  —  an  office  once  powerful,  but  now 
with  very  little  authority.  However,  it  was  a  step 
onward  in  that  path  in  which  Labeo  wished  to  ad- 
vance, and  the  manner  in  which  it  was  given  was  a 
mark  of  great  and  unusual  distinction,  for  he  was 
not  required  to  hold  the  office  of  quoestor,  which  generally 
preceded  it.  During  the  year  of  his  tribuneship,  he  acted 
with  great  moderation  and  reserve,  understanding  well  the 
character  of  the  times,  and  knowing  that  in  Nero's  reign  the 
want  of  exertion  was  the  truest  distinction.  After  this  was 
over  he  was  made  prastor,  and  conducted  himself  with  the 
same  judgment  and  silent  dignity.  He  had  no  occasion,  as 
it  fortunately  happened,  to  sit  in  judgment,  for  that  branch 
of  the  magistrate's  business  did  not  fall  to  his  share.  The 
prefect  of  the  city  had  charge  of  the  public  offences,  and 
nothing  remained  for  him  but  the  exhibition  of  publif'  spec- 
tacles and  the  amusement  of  the  populace.  He  conducted 
these  at  once  with  magnificence  and  economy,  so  that  while 
there  was  no  profuse  expenditure,  he  yet  was  secure  of 
jjopularity. 

He  found  himself  as  welcome  as  ever  at  court,  and  Nero 
still  with  extraordinary  constancy  jested  at  his  "  Cato."  Had 
if  been  the  affections  of  the  emjieror  that  were  concerned,  or 
the  public  interest,  or  the  wishes  of  the  people,  his  favor  to 
Lab(;o  would  soon  have  ceased ;  but  this  was  a  matter  of 

(195) 


m 


ii^ 


•f"9  wr 


* 


196 


Ai  Court. 


mere  taste,  and  it  was  chiefly  an  idea  of  the  ancient  repul)li- 
can  character  of  the  office  of  tribune  which  induced  him  to 
give  it  to  Labeo  in  such  a  wj'y. 

Labeo,  however,  without  caring  pa'ticiilarly  for  the  cau^e, 
rejoiced  in  his  advancement,  and  looked  forward  hopefully 
to  a  prosperous  career.  The  excesses  of  Nero,  which  rather 
increased  than  diminished,  troubled  him  very  little,  and  did 
not  interfere  in  the  slightest  d-^gree  ^vith  the  gratitude  which 
he  really  felt  toward  the  emperor. 

Tigellinus  had  .at  first  shown  himself  quite  indifferent  to 
the  progress  of  Labeo,  and  the  position  of  Cineas.  He  had 
so  much  confidence  in  his  own  power  to  influence  Nero,  by 
working  on  his  baser  passions,  that  he  never  thought  it  pos- 
sible that  any  other  things  could  have  any  influence  over 
him.  With  much  astonishment  he  saw  the  ascendency  which 
Cineas  had  gradually  gained  at  court,  where  he  stood  as  one 
of  the  prominent  men,  and  yet  with  not  a  stain  on  his  charac- 
ter, —  too  rich  to  wish  office,  and  too  content,  or  perhaps  too 
proud  to  seek  for  honors.  Tigellinus  had  expected  for  a 
long  time  that  his  master  would  grow  weary  of  both  these 
men  ;  but  when  he  found  that  Nero  did  not  grow  weary  he 
began  to  feel  alarm.  He  did  not  altogether  understand  the 
force  which  art  and  literature  could  exert  over  the  mind  of 
Nero.  For  the  emperor  prided  himself  upon  his  fine  taste 
and  his  delicate  sentiment.  He  thought  that  a  great  poet 
was  lost  to  the  world  when  he  had  to  become  emperor.  This 
was  one  of  the  very  strongest  convictions  in  his  singular  and 
contradictory  nature.  Tigellinus  did  not  lay  sufficient  stress 
on  this,  for  he  did  not  understand  the  feeling.  With  Nero, 
everything  connected  with  art,  literature,  or  philosopliy, 
amounted  to  a  hobby.  He  had  a  profound  belief  in  his  own 
genius  for  all  these,  and  in  his  excellence  in  these  depart- 
ments. His  tendency  toward  these  feelings  began  in  his 
earliest  years,  when  he  was  innocent,  and  continued  till  that 
hour  when  he  died,  laden  with  guilt,  and  manifested  itself, 
even  in  death,  as  the  strong  ruling  passion.     Seneca  pos- 


■iSu" 


Al  Court. 


197 


se3sed  an  ascendency  over  him  for  years,  solely  from  this 
cause,  and  lost  it  chiefly  from  his  own  lack  of  resources.  He 
grew  old,  and  no  longer  had  that  enthusiasm  in  these  pur- 
Piiits  which  was  needed. 

Cineas  more  than  rilled  the  place  f,f  Seneca.  After  all, 
even  though  he  haF  desjMsed  the  pretensions  of  Nero,  he 
respected  thern  because  they  were  sincere.  For  himself,  he 
had  an  unfeigned  love  for  the  beautiful,  wherever  found,  and 
an  enthusiastic  devotion  to  all  that  was  elevated  in  art,  or 
literature,  or  philosophy.  That  enthusiasm  grew  stronger  as 
years  passed  on,  and  as  he  was  yet  young,  it  never  seemed 
forced  or  unnatural.  He  was  always  fresh  and  original. 
His  criticisms  were  always  sound  and  just.  Above  all,  he 
was  Greek,  and  had  to  an  extraordinary  degree  the  exqui- 
site taste,  the  subtle  intellect,  and  the  venerable  genius  of 
his  race.  He  had  a  wider  view  of  life,  and  a  broader  intel- 
ligence than  Tigellinus,  and  from  the  first  understood  per- 
fectly that  twofold  character  of  Nero,  which  was  also  such 
a  mystery  to  the  other.  He  knew  that  it  was  possible  for  a 
man  to  love  vice  and  literature  at  the  same  time,  and  to  be 
at  once  an  ardent  lover  of  philosophy,  or  art,  and  a  monster 
of  cruelty.  He  knew  that  intellectual  refinement  could  ex- 
ist side  by  side  with  moral  impurity,  and  only  saw  in  Nero 
what  he  had  already  seen,  to  a  less  degree,  in  other  men. 
So  he  had  this  advantage  all  along,  that  he  understood  the 
man  with  whom  he  had  to  deal,  and  thus  was  always  able  to 
act  in  such  a  way  as  to  preserve  his  influence. 

TigeUinus  therefore  became  exceedingly  jealous  of  this 
Athenian,  who  occupied  a  position  to  which  it  would  be 
ridiculous  for  him  to  set  up  a  rivalry,  even  if  he  had  any 
desire  to  do  so.  He  tried  in  vain  to  weaken  Nero's  love  for 
these  pursuits  of  taste.  He  exhausted  all  his  ingenuity  in 
devising  new  pleasures,  but  the  only  result  was,  that  after 
bis  master  had  obtained  what  enjoyment  he  could,  a  reaction 
came,  and  he  was  sure  to  return  with  fresh  ardor  to  his  liter- 
ary employments.  At  one  time  TigeUinus  began  to  fear 
17* 


II. 


198 


Ai  Court. 


that  the  emperor  might  give  himself  up  to  these,  to  the  ex- 
clusion of  all  other  things,  and  then  what  would  he  do  ?  His 
occupation  would  be  gone,  and  he  must  sink  at  once  into  his 
original  obscurity. 

'J'he  envy  of  Tigellinus  was  so  manifest  that  Nero  him- 
self noticed  it,  and  use  .  to  laugh  about  it  to  Cineas. 

"  This  man,"  said  he,  "is  a  beast,  an  unmitigated  beast,  and 
thinks  all  otlier  men  are  beasts.  He  has  no  idea  of  the  charm 
wliic'h  intellectual  pursuits  can  exert.  He  would  stare  if  I  told 
him  that  I  enjoy  making  poetry  as  much  as  eating  at  one  of  his 
most  exquisite  banquets.  He  is  very  good  in  his  way,  and 
pei'haps  in  that  way  indisi)ensable,  but  it  is  a  low  way  after 
all,  and  an  entirely  brutish  way.  Thank  the  gods,  the  cares 
of  state  have  never  shaken  my  old  love  for  literature.  If  I 
had  to  live  this  life  over,  I  should  choose  to  be  boi*n  in  Ath- 
ens, and  live  a  calm,  philosophic  life. 

"  He  doesn't  understand  you,"  continued  Nero,  "  any  more 
than  me.  He  thinks  you  a  rival.  How  ridiculous !  That 
would  be  as  though  a  god  should  wish  to  rival  a  dog ;  for 
you,  my  dear  philosopher,  live  in  thought  the  life  of  a  god, 
such  a  life  as  seems  best  of  all  lives,  in  my  judgment ;  but 
he  lives  as  beasts  live,  without  any  higher  thought  than  tlie 
gratifica'aon  of  his  appetite.  To  pass  from  him  to  you,  is  like 
rising  into  a  higher  plane  of  life." 

Cineas  acknowledged  with  his  usual  graceful  modesty  the 
kindness  of  the  emperor  in  passing  upon  him  so  unmerited  a 
compliment,  but  had  too  much  dignity  to  utter  a  word  about 
his  enemy  good  or  bad.  He  feared  nothing  from  him,  for  he 
felt  that  he  could  find  means  to  attract  Nero  for  some  years 
longer  if  he  chose. 

One  day,  however,  Cineas,  on  his  way  to  the  palace,  saw 
something  which  excited  some  uneasiness.  He  saw  Tigelli- 
nus in  earnest  conversation  with  one  whose  face  was  well 
known  to  the  Athenian.     It  was  Hegio. 

It  was  not  at  all  strange  that  the^yrian  should  have  found 
his  way  to  Tigellinus,  and,  indeed,  it  was  quite  probable,  as 


At  Court » 


199 


Cineas  felt  that  he  had  been  in  his  employ  ever  since  Lubeo 
had  dismissed  liim,  although  it  had  never  happened  unfil  this 
time  that  Cineas  had  seen  him.  All  this  Cinea^  thorjrht 
and  still  the  sight  of  this  man  thus  in  the  employ,  as  it 
seemed,  of  his  enemy,  seemed  to  promise  future  trouble.  Ti- 
gellinus  had  power  to  pull  down  the  loftiest.  In  his  train 
was  a  crowd  of  vile  informers,  who  were  ready  to  swear  to 
anything,  and  perjure  themselves  a  thousand  times  over  for 
their  master's  sake.  Cineas  knew  too  well  the  names  of 
many  who  had  fallen  beneath  the  power  of  this  miscreant ; 
the  names  of  some  were  whispered  about  among  the  people, 
with  shudders  for  their  fate,  and  exeerations  for  their  mur- 
derers. The  sight  of  Hegio  made  him  feel  as  though  the 
danger  might  come  unexpectedly  upon  himself,  and  his  own 
friends,  involving  them  all  in  one  common  ruin. 

But  his  determination  was  soon  taken,  and  that  was  to  go 
on  as  he  was  doing.  Perhaps,  after  a  while,  Tigellinus  might 
perceive  that  his  position  did  not  affect  him  at  all,  and  desist 
from  his  efforts.  At  any  rate  he  resolved  to  continue  as 
before. 

He  now  made  himself  more  agreeable  than  ever  to  Nero, 
displayed  new  powers  which  he  had  not  exhibited  before, 
and  entered  more  largely  into  Nero's  peculiar  literary  tastes. 
He  made  some  rhymes  in  Greek,  which  filled  the  emperor 
with  lelight,  for  he  saw  in  this  what  he  considered  as  a  re- 
ception of  his  own  idea  by  the  man  whose  genius  he  re- 
spected most.  He  made  known  to  him  new  modes  of  metre, 
and  new  secrets  in  sculpture.  He  also  brought  him  a  lost 
poem  of  Alcaeus,  which  had  been  preserved  in  his  family, 
and  presented  it  to  him  with  great  parade. 

Nero's  intense  partiality  for  everything  Greek  made  him 
receive  all  these  new  efforts  of  Cineas  with  a  pleasure  equal 
to  that  of  a  child  who  received  some  toy  for  which  he  has 
longed  for  years.  Cineas  soon  found  out  that  his  position 
was  more  secure  than  ever.  In  fact,  he  became  so  indispen- 
sable to  the  emperor  that  it  interfered  very  much  with  hia 


;)"'< 


200 


A^  Court. 


% 


own  wishes  and  movements,  and  made  him  regret  tliat  he 
had  ever  entered  the  palace.  lie  began  to  fear  that  he 
would  never  be  allowed  to  leave  it. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  Nero's  partiality  was  sincere,  and 
also  that  it  was  a  permanent  feeling,  from  the  simple  fact  that 
Cineas  stood  alone  without  a  rival.  No  other  man  combined 
the  same  attractions  in  one  and  the  same  person.  Nero  saw 
in  him  a  Greek  and  an  Athenian  of  the  noblest  lineage  ;  a 
man  who  had  complete  control  over  all  Greek  art,  and  letters, 
and  pliilosophy  ;  a  master  of  delicate  compliment,  —  a  man 
of  noble  and  god-like  presence,  easy  in  manner,  delightful  in 
conversation,  and,  above  all,  not  ambitious.  Cineas  had  ab- 
solutely not  one  thing  to  ask  from  Nero.  His  vast  wealth 
and  his  historic  name  made  him  content.  He  had  nothing 
to  gain.  He  alone,  of  all  the  court,  had  no  ulterior  designs. 
This  wa:i  more  than  could  be  said  even  of  Seneca.  For  all 
these  things,  and  above  all  for  this  last,  which  ht'  himself 
knew  perfectly  well,  and  often  alluded  to,  Nero  would  not 
willingly  lose  his  new  associate. 


.iliiii.ii'jM 


XX. 


§■♦■■• 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL  SON. 

HOUGH  intent  upon  pleasing  the  Emperor,  Cineas 
still  visited  occasionally  the  Christian  meetings^ 
sometimes  seeing  here  the  great  apostle,  but  never 
seeking  any  closer  conmiunication  with  him  than 
that  which  he  might  have-  as  a  general  auditor. 
Tliis  may  have  been  either  the  feeling  that  he  could 
learn  nothing,  or  on  the  other  hand  that  he  might 
hear  too  much  and  be  convinced  by  le  who  was  not  a  phi- 
losopher. Whatever  the  cause  may  liave  been,  however,  he 
continued  to  hold  aloof  from  the  one  who  could  have  done 
more  than  any  other  to  show  him  the  way  to  that  Truth 
which  he  sought. 

It  haj)pened  once,  at  one  of  these  meetings,  that  he  was 
startled  at  seeing  a  well-known  face.     It  belonged  to  one 
whom  he  had  not  seen  for  years,  and  now  this  one  appeared 
before  him  as  a  leader  in  the  Christian  assembly. 
It  was  Philo  of  Crete. 

Very  much  changed  had  he  become.  "When  Cineas  saw 
him  last  he  was  a  young  man,  but  now  his  hair  seemed 
turned  prematurely  gray.  His  old  expression  had  passed 
from  his  face.  Formerly  he  carried  in  his  countenance  that 
which  bore  witness  to  the  remorse  within  his  heart,  but  now 
all  that  had  departed,  and  the  pale,  serene  face  which  ap- 
peared before  Cineas  had  no  expression  save  one  of  peace. 

He  had  found  this  then  at  last,  the  ])eace  for  which  he 
longed,  and  here  among  these  Christians.  This  fact  opened 
before  Cineas  thoughts  which  he   had  not  known  before. 

(201) 


i  L 


i- 


¥'    ■ 


202  T/ic  Return  of  the  Prodigal  Son. 

Tlie  master  liail  falU'd,  but  Philo  had  sat  at  thu  feet  of  a 
greater  Master. 

After  tlie  meeting  was  over  Cineas  went  up  to  him.  Philo 
had  recognized  him  also,  and  eagerly  embraced  him.  For 
some  time  they  looked  in  silence  at  one  another. 

"  Have  y  ii  been  long  in  Rome?"  said  Cineas,  at  last. 

*'  I  only  arrived  here  yesterday." 

Then  another  pause.     Philo  was  the  first  to  speak  :  — 

"  You  see  that  I  have  changed." 

"Yes,"  said  Cineas  ;  "  you  are  an  old  man  before  your  time." 

"  I  have  had  a  greater  and  a  better  change  than  that." 

"  You  have  found  then  that  which  you  wished  ? "  asked 
Cineas,  with  anxious  sympathy. 

"  Yes,  noble  Cineas,"  said  Philo,  with  deep  solemnity  ;  "  I 
have  found  peace.  I  have  learned  a  wisdom  greater  than 
that  of  Socrates.  I  have  heard  One  who  said, '  Come  unto 
me,  all  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give 
you  rest.'     I  have  come  to  him  and  he  has  given  rest." 

Philo  spoke  half  to  himself  like  one  soliloquizing.  Sud- 
denly he  looked  earnestly  at  Cineas,  and  in  a  tremulous 
voice  said, — 

"  Cineas,  you  know  my  story.  I  seek  over  the  world  for 
herr 

He  paused.  Cineas  bowed  his  head.  He  well  knew  to 
whom  Philo  alluded. 

"  I  have  never  found  her,"  continued  Philo  in  mournful 
tones,  "  no,  never  so  much  as  a  trace  of  her.  I  try  to  work 
for  my  Lord,  but  my  work  is  only  half-hearted,  and  will  be 
so  till  I  find  her,  till  I  know  the  worst.  And  I  will  travel 
all  over  the  world  till  I  die,  but  I  will  seek  her." 

Philo  turned  away  and  buried  his  face  in  both  his  hands. 

"  O  Philo ! "  cried  Cineas,  seizing  his  arm  in  a  convul- 
sive grasp,  "  you  have  come  to  the  end  of  your  search  ! " 

Philo  turned,  trembling  with  agitation,  and  regarded  Cin- 
eas  with  an  awful  look. 

^'  You  would  not  dare  to  speak  slightingly  I " 


The  Return  of  the  Prodigal  Son.        203 

"  Slie  is  liere  in  Rome,"  said  Cinoas. 

Philo  fell  upon  Ills  knees,  and  bowing  his  head,  and  clasp- 
ing his  hands,  he  remained  motionless,  hut  his  heart  poured 
out  all  its  love  and  gratitude  to  Him  who  had  thus  answered 
the  prayers,  and  the  longings,  and  the  search  of  the  weary 
years. 

Then  he  rose,  and  clutching  the  arm  of  Cineas,  he  said,  in 
a  scarce  audible  whisper,-^ 

"  Take  me  to  her." 

And  the  two  hurried  away. 

Philo  said  not  a  word  as  he  went  along.  lie  did  not  even 
ask  Cineas  how  he  knew  that  this  one  to  whom  he  was  lead- 
ing \\\\\\  was  the  right  person.  In  his  profound  faith  in  God, 
he  took  this  at  once  as  an  answer  to  prayer,  even  as  though 
Cineas  had  come  all  the  way  from  Greece  for  the  especial 
pur[)ose  of  leading  him  to  her. 

He  spoke  not  a  word,  but  the  tight  grasp,  and  the  nervous 
trembling  of  his  arm  showed  his  emotion.  He  was  over- 
whelmed by  the  suddenness  of  this  blessed  news,  and  in  the 
multitude  of  his  thoughts  he  could  not  speak. 

Cineas,  on  the  other  hand,  said  nothing,  but  thought  how 
he  might  best  have  the  news  broken  to  the  nurse.  He  knew 
her  feeble  state,  and  her  nervous  weakness.  A  great  shock, 
whether  of  joy  or  grief  might  be  too  much  for  her.  This 
was  his  dread.  He  could  think  of  no  way,  and  therefore 
determined  to  commit  the  task  of  preparation  to  Helena. 

At  length  they  reached  the  house,  and  then  Cineas  spoke 
for  the  first  time  since  they  left,  and  told  Philo  his  plan. 
He  took  his  friend  up  to  a  room  where  he  might  remain  un- 
molested for  a  time,  and  then  went  to  his  sister. 

Helena  agreed  to  do  what  she  could,  but  she  felt  very 
doubtful  about  her  success.  She  feared  for  the  effect  of 
til  is  sudden  joy.  The  nurse  had  indeed  recovered,  but  her 
strength  at  best  was  frail.  A  sudden  excitement  would  in- 
variably make  her  heart  beat  so  violently  that  she  could 
scarcely  breathe.     The  grief  of  years,  and  many  sleepless 


jfm 


/ 


.  il  -.^ 


204         The  Return  of  the  Prodigal  Son, 

nights,  nnd  bitter  agony  endured  in  thu;?  lonely  vigils,  had 
all  brought  her  to  tliis. 

And  now,  when  Helena  sought  the  nurse,  doubting  her 
power  to  break  the  news  fittingly,  and  trembling  for  the  re- 
sult, she  showed  disturbance  in  her  face,  and  when  the  nurse 
saw  her  enter  the  room  she  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  As 
for  Helena,  she  could  think  of  no  roundabout  way  by  which 
the  news  could  be  skilfully  unfolded.  Not  knowing  any 
good  way,  she  concluded  to  say  whatever  came  uppermost. 

So,  in  as  calm  a  tone  as  she  could  use,  she  said :  "  Cineas 
has  heard  something  to  day  which  h^  wished  me  to  tell 
you  "  — 

No  sooner  had  Helena  said  this  than  she  repented,  and 
stopping  short,  she  looked  at  the  nurse,  and  felt  frightened  at 
the  effect  of  these  simple  words. 

For  the  nurse  leaned  back  in  her  seat,  and  stared  fixedly 
at  Helena,  with  a  strange,  wild  expression,  and  her  heart 
beat  with  fierce,  fast  bounds,  so  that  her  whole  frame  was 
shaken.  * 

"  He  saw  a  man  in  the  city, "  said  Helena,  with  a  trem- 
bling voice,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  "  and  this  man  told 
him  something  which  he  wished  you  to  know.  But,  oh,  my 
dearest,  why  do  you  tremble  so  ?  Be  calm  !  Can  you  not 
come  to  yourself  ?  " 

And  Helena  caught  the  nurse  in  her  arms,  and  kissed  her 
pale,  white  face,  and  implored  her  to  be  calm. 

"  Ah,  dearest,"  said  the  nurse,  in  a  fVxint  voice,  "  I  am  not 
able  to  control  my  feelings.  I  know  well  what  you  have 
to  tell  about.  There  is  only  one  kind  of  message  which 
Cineas  would  send  to  me.  It  is  of  him.  But  tell  it.  Don't 
fear  for  me.  Whether  I  am  calm  or  not  is  no  matter.  I 
can  bear  it.  You  came  to  tell  me  of  his  death.  He  is  gone, 
and  I  will  not  see  him  again  in  this  life." 

"  No,"  said  Helena. 

"  No .?     Is  it  not  of  him  ?  " 

«  Yes." 


The  Return  of  the  Prodigal  Son.         205 


"  And  what  else  have  you  to  tell  ?  Oh,  I  pray  you,  do  not 
keep  me  in  suspense." 

"  He  is  not  dead." 

"  He  — is  —  not  —  dead  ?  "  repeated  the  nurse,  rousing 
herself,  and  looking  at  Helena  with  a  strange,  supplicating 
glance.  '•  Not  dead  ?  And  you  came  to  tell  me  this  ?  And 
this  man  that  you  speak  of,  where  is  he  ?     Who  is  he  ?  " 

"  You  can  see  him,  and  ask  him  yourself.  But,  oh,  be 
calm. " 

But  the  nurse  trembled  more  than  ever. 

"  Oh,  has  he  been  spared  ?  Is  he  alive  ?  And  where  ? 
And  who  can  bring  him  to  his  mother  ?  "Where  can  I  go  to 
see  him  before  I  die  ?  Not  much  longer  can  I  live.  Did 
he  send  a  message  ?  Did  he  ever  mention  my  name  ?  Is 
he  near  me,  or  far  away  ?  Is  he  too  far  to  come  to  me  be- 
fore I  die  ?  Oh,  speak,  and  do  not  look  at  me  so  strangely. 
What  do  you  mean  by  those  tears  ?  If  he  is  not  dead,  why 
do  you  weep  ?  " 

"  Because  —  because,"  said  Helena,  "I  fear  for  you.  You 
tremble  so.     You  cannot  bear  the  shock." 

"  The  shock.  What  sliock  ?  To  hear  that  my  boy  lives  ? 
Ah,  what  have  you  to  say  ?  What  terrible  thing  remains  ? 
Have  I  not  borne  the  worst  —  the  worst  ?  Can  anything 
worse  remain  ? ' 

And  a  deep  terror  showed  itself  in  the  face  of  the  nurse, 
and  she  sat  erect  and  rigid,  with  clasped  hands,  fearing  to 
hear  of  some  new  thing. 

"  Oh,  my  dearesi  There  is  nothing  like  that.  I  fear 
that  you  will  be  killed,  not  by  terror,  but  by  joy." 

"  Joy ! " 

The  nurse  clutched  Helena's  arm,  and  tried  to  speak,  but 
could  not. 

"  He  is  a  Christian.  He  preaches  Christ.  He  goes  over 
the  world  searching  after  you.     Can  you  bear  that  joy  ?  " 

"  No  !  no !  I  cannot  bear  it,"  cried  the  nurse,  and  she  fell 
down  and  burled  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  burst  into  a  tor- 
W 


f^  ™ 


)t 


i>; 


i 


206         TAe  Return  of  the  Prodigal  Son. 


rent  of  tears.  And  there  Helena  stood,  wringing  her  hands, 
and  looking  at  the  venerable  form  of  her  friend  as  it  was 
shaken  by  convulsive  sobs,  and  reproaching  herself  in- 
cessantly. Yet  she  knew  not  how  else  she  could  have  doiH'. 
But  she  did  not  know  how  one  so  feeble  could  survive  all 
this.     She  hastened  to  bring  it  all  to  an  end. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  twining  her  arms  about  the  nurse's  pros- 
trate form,  "  what  can  I  say  ?  Rouse  yourself.  Sliall  I  tell 
you  all  ?     Will  not  the  joy  kill  you  ?  " 

"  More  joy,"  said  the  nurse,  raising  herself,  and  still  trem- 
bling. "  More  ?  What !  more  ?  What  more  can  remain  ? 
Is  it  that  I  shall  see  him  ?  " 

"  It  is,"  said  Helena.     "  You  shall  see  him,  and  soon." 

"  Oh,  I  know  it  all.  And  you  have  been  trying  to  break 
it  to  me.  He  is  in  Rome.  He  knows  that  I  am  here.  He 
is  coming  to  see  me.  And  I  shall  see  him,  —  my  boy,  my 
child,  my  darling,  my  precious  son!  O  dearest  mistress! 
bring  him  soon.  If  I  am  to  be  killed  it  will  be  by  delay. 
Nothing  can  save  me  but  his  quick  arrival.  Oh,  bring  me 
my  boy.  Where  can  I  find  him  ?  I  will  go  after  him.  Tell 
me  where  my  boy  is." 

And  the  nurse  clung  to  Helena's  arm,  and  moaned  about 
her  boy,  with  a  strange  wild  longing,  —  a  deep  yeaining 
which  words  are  feeble  to  express,  —  a  hunger  of  maternal 
love,  all  of  which  showed  what  a  passion  burned  beneath 
this  calm,  exterior.  And  now  this  passion  all  burst  forth  and 
blazed  up  above  all  restraint,  consuming  all  other  feelings. 

But  Helena  was  spared  any  further  delay.  As  the  nurse 
spoke  and  prayed,  a  sob  was  heard,  and  a  man  rushed  into 
the  room  and  caught  her  in  his  arms.  Instantly,  in  spite  of 
the  ravages  of  sorrow  and  of  time,  —  in  spite  of  gray  hairs,  as 
gray  as  her  own,  —  in  spite  of  the  transformation  which  had 
been  wrought  in  that  face  by  the  remorse  of  years,  succeeded 
by  the  peace  that  Christ  had  given ;  in  spite  of  all  tiie^c 
things,  the  mother  recognized  the  lineaments  of  the  ^oxs,  and 
it  was  with  a  cry,  that  expressed  the  longing  and  the  desire 


!    I'll 


The  Return  of  the  Prodigal  Son.         207 

of  years,  —  fhat  told  of  hope  deferred  at  last  satisfied,  and 
agony  turned  to  joy,  and  sorrow  to  ecstasy ;  it  was  with  such 
a  cry  as  this,  —  memorable  (o  Helena,  in  whose  ears  it  rang 
long  afterwards,  —  that  the  nurse  flung  herself  upon  the  heart 
of  her  son,  and  wept  there,  and  moaned  inarticulate  words, 
half  of  endearment,  half  of  prayer. 

The  son  gently  raised  his  mother  in  his  arms,  and  lifted 
her  to  a  couch,  where  he  sat  by  her  side,  still  straining  her 
to  his  heart,  accompanying  her  agitation  with  an  emotion  as 
deep  and  as  harassing.  Strange  that  overpowering  joy 
should  be  a  thing  almost  terrible  ! 

Helena  saw  all  this,  and  left  the  room  to  these  two,  for 
their  happiness  was  a  holy  thing,  in  which  no  other  might 
intrude.  Yet  she  feared  none  the  less  for  the  result.  Could 
that  feeble  nurse  sustain  the  effect  of  such  a  shock  ?  She 
feared,  and  tried  to  hope,  but  could  not. 

She  sought  Cineas,  and  in  her  deep  anxiety  told  him  all, 
and  his  gi*ave  face  and  apprehension  confirmed  her  fears. 

Hours  passed  away,  yet  not  a  sound  was  heard.  Both 
Helena  and  Cineas  were  too  anxious  to  retire  to  rest.  They 
waited  in  silence,  looking  at  one  another,  or  on  the  floor, 
wondering  what  those  hours  might  bring  forth,  fearing  too, 
and  while  wishing  an  end  to  come  to  suspense,  yet  dreading 
that  end.  To  Helena  there  was  the  worst  fear,  for  she  had 
grown  to  love  the  nurse  like  a  mother. 

At  length  day  began  to  dawn,  and  Helena,  unable  any  long- 
er to  endure  this  suspense,  thought  herself  justified  in  enter- 
ing the  room  once  more.  She  stole  in  quietly,  and  went 
slowly  up  to  the  couch. 

There  Philo  was  seated,  with  his  mother  half  reclined  against 
liiin,  holding  both  his  hands  tightly,  and  looking  up  into  his 
face  with  a  rapt  expression.  But  the  face  that  evinced 
rapture  had  changed  in  its  nature  since  Helena  had  left,  and 
as  she  looked  her  heart  stood  still.  That  face,  always  ema- 
ciated, had  now  become  thinner  and  sharper,  and  there  was 
a  light  in  her  eyes  which  seemed  unearthly.  Her  lips  were 
bloodless,  and  daik  circles  were  around  her  eyes. 


% 


2o8         The  Return  of  the  Prodigal  Son. 


M. 


\ 

The  form  of  Helena  stooping  over  her,  roused  her,  and 
drew  her  attention  for  a  moment  from  her  son. 

"  0  my  loved  mistret^s,"  she  said  in  a  faint,  hollow  voice, 
that  seemed  not  like  her  own.  "  He  loves  me,  —  my  boy, 
—  my  child,  —  my  darling.  He  says  he  has  always  loved 
me.  He  says  he  has  been  searching  after  me  for  years,  yes, 
years." 

Helena  stooped  down  with  tearful  eyes,  and  kissed  the 
nurse's  forehead.  She  shuddered,  for  that  forehead  was  cold 
and  damp. 

Philo  said  not  a  word,  but  gazed  with  all  his  soul  on  his 
mother,  but  there  was  a  sadness  in  his  face  which  lo()k(;d 
like  a  foreboding  of  something  different  from  happiness.  He 
noticed  the  sliudder  of  Helena,  and  looked  up,  and  mourn- 
fully shook  his  head. 

"  He  says  he  loves  me,"  said  the  nurse,  faintly,  "  and  that 
he  will  never,  never  leave  me  again,  —  till  I  die." 

"Till  you  die,"  sighed  Helena,  half  uncc.sciously  repeat- 
ing her  words. 

Philo  bov,ed  down  his  head  low  over  his  mother.  Ah, 
poor,  weary,  worn  sufferer !  faintly  the  breath  came  and  went, 
and  the  wild  throbbing  of  that  aching  heart  had  changed  to 
a  fainter  pulsation,  that  grew  fainter  yet  faster  as  the  time 
passed  by. 

"  Mother  dearest,"  said  Philo  at  last,  "  will  you  not  try 
and  sleep  now  ?  You  are  so  weak.  I  have  caused  you  suf- 
fering through  your  life,  and  now  I  bring  you  a  worse  pang 
by  my  return." 

"  Suffering  ?  "  said  the  nurse.  "  Do  not  reproach  your- 
self, my  child ;  I  have  had  dear  friends,  and  here  is  one  who 
of  all  dear  ones  is  the  most  dear." 

Helena  then  tried  to  urge  her  to  take  rest  and  try  and 
sleep. 

"  No,  no,"  she  said.  "  Let  me  alone  now.  When  sleep 
comes  I  will  welcome  it,  but  I  cannot  sleep  yet.  Let  me  be 
with  my  boy.     For  I  have  mourned  him  for  years  as  one 


1 


The  Return  of  the  Prodigal  Son.         209 


dead,  find  he  comes  to  me  like  one  from  the  dead.  And 
he  is  mine  again,  as  when  I  held  him  a  little  child  to  my 
heart." 

Tears  flowed  faster  from  Helena's  eyes.  Could  not  she 
herself  understand  all  that  mother's  love  and  longing  ?  She 
well  could.  But  she  wept,  for  she  feared  the  end  of  all  this. 
Now  the  time  passed,  and  day  grew  brighter,  and  already 
tliere  was  a  stir  in  the  household.  The  nurse  seemed  to 
grow  fainter,  but  still  she  held  tlie  hands  of  her  son." 

"  Blessed  be  He,"  she  said  at  last,  "  who  has  heard  all 
my  prayers,  and  answered  them  all ;  who  has  promised 
heaven,  and  kept  his  promise,  and  made  my  heaven  begin 
on  earth." 

"  I  shall  go  back  to  sorrow  never  again,"  she  continued,  af- 
ter a  pause,  "  never  again.  I  shall  go  on  in  joy.  I  shall 
pass  from  this  happiness  to  a  higher. 

"  I  shall  go  from  my  son  to  my  Saviour ;  from  earth  to 
heaven." 

Philo  took  her  in  his  arms  with  a  passionate  sob,  and  drew 
her  nearer  to  himself.  Helena  took  her  thin  hands  and 
chafed  them.  Their  icy  coldness  sent  a  chill  of  fear  through 
all  lier  being.     She  saw  what  the  end  might  be. 

But  the  nurse  lay  without  heeding  them,  still  looking  up, 
with  her  longing  eyes,  at  her  son's  face,  as  though  that  long- 
ing could  never  be  satisfied. 

"  "Will  you  not  try  and  sleep,  mother  ?  "  said  Philo  in  a 
voice  of  despair. 

"  Sleep  will  come  in  its  own  time,"  said  the  nurse.  "  Do 
not  try  and  force  it  on  me.  Do  not  leave  me.  Stay  by  me. 
Hold  me  fast,  my  own ;  let  me  cling  to  your  hand.  Let  my 
eyes  devour  your  face,  —  O  face  of  my  son !  my  long  lost ! 
ray  loved ! " 

Her  lips  murmured  words  which  meant  love,  and  that 

mother's  heart,  in  its  deathless  love,  had  all  its  feelings  fixed 

on  her  son.    So  with  her  lips  murmuring  words  that  were  not 

heard,  but  none  the  less  understood,  —  so  she  lay  till  at  last 

18* 


.^.W^mw^iifv  "l*7-?^-r'^ 


210  T/ic  RcIl    n  of  the  Prodigal  Son. 


sleep  did  come,  a  light,  restless  sleep,  in  which  she  waked 
at  the  slightest  efF(H-t  to  move  her. 

But  the  sleep  gi  ew  deeper,  and  Philo  at  length  disen- 
gaged himself,  and  placed  her  in  an  easier  position.  Then 
he  knelt  by  her  side,  and  held  her  hands,  for  so  she  had 
charged  him,  and  her  command  was  holy.  He  held  liei- 
hands,  and  he  kneeled  by  her  side,  watching  every  breatii, 
with  thouglits  rushing  through  his  mind,  and  memories  com- 
ing before  him,  —  such  tlioughts  as  break  the  heai't,  such 
memories  as  drive  men  mad. 

What  could  Helena  do  ?  vShe  could  do  nothing.  Her  only 
feeling  was  one  of  fear.  Wliat  hope  could  she  have  tluit 
this  poor  worn-out  frame  might  ever  survive  all  this  ?  Nev- 
er before  had  she  known  wluit  feeling  animated  this  sorrow- 
ing mother.  Now  she  saw  something  which  threw  a  new 
light  over  the  past,  and  made  her  understand  the  full  meas- 
ure of  that  sorrow  which  arose  out  of  such  love,  Stricleii 
heart !  could  she  wish  that  it  might  have  any  other  lot,  than 
an  entrance  into  eternal  rest? 

Helena  again  left  the  room  but  remained  near,  where  she 
could  hear  the  sliglitest  sound,  and  waited  with  the  feeling 
of  one  that  waits  for  his  doom.  For  the  boding  fear  of  her 
heart  could  not  now  be  banished.  As  the  hours  passed  it 
grew  stronger. 

At  last  there  came  a  summons. 

It  came  piercingly,  fearfully. 

It  was  a  shriek  of  despair,  the  cry  of  a  strong  man  in  his 
agony ;  and  Helena  rushed  back  once  more  and  saw  it  all. 

Yes,  the  end  had  ii.  .eed  come. 

The  nurse  lay  with  her  face  formed  into  an  expression  of 
heavenly  peace  and  calm,  with  a  radiant  smile;  but  the  smile 
was  stony,  and  the  calm  face  was  fixed.  Over  her  hung 
Philo,  moaning  for  her,  and  crying  out,  — "  O  mother ! 
My  mother !  You  cannot,  you  will  not  leave  me !  0  my 
mother,  I  have  kilhd  vou  ! " 

All  was  over.     The  pure  spirit  had  passed  away.    Yes, 


The  Return  of  the  Prodigal  Son.         211 

as  she  once  said,  —  "  Rest  had  come  at  last,"  —  and  all  the 
sorrow,  and  all  the  sighing,  that  in  her  life  had  come  to  her 
in  so  large  measure,  had  now  been  left  behind  with  that  in- 
animate form,  and  the  smile  on  the  face  remained  to  show 
that  if  siie  had  left  her  son,  she  had  gone  to  her  Saviour,  and 
earth  had  been  exchanged  for  heaven. 

For  she  had  known  that  she  was  dying,  and  so  she  had 
ciowded  all  life  into  those  last  moments,  and  all  the  love 
lliat  she  had  felt  for  years.  She  had  lavished  it  all  upon  her 
son,  and  she  knew  that  this  w^as  the  last  of  earth,  and  she 
blessed  God  that  he  had  made  it  so  sweet. 

All  this  Helena  learned  afterward  from  Philo,  but  not 
now. 

For  now  he  knelt  there  crushed  and  overv^he.aieu,  for- 
getting himself,  forgetting  his  Christian  faith,  mindful  only 
oi'  this  one  great  grief,  and  in  his  despair  thinking  only  of 
this,  that  he  had  killed  her. 

For  this  man  had  learned  the  way  of  pardon,  and  had 
found  peace  for  his  troubled  conscience ;  but,  nevertheless 
there  remained  the  memory  of  his  fearful  sin,  which  no 
thought  of  pardon  could  so  allay  but  that  it  created  self-re- 
proach and  remorse,  that  were  always  ready  to  assail  him. 
Now,  over  the  dead  form  of  that  mother,  so  wronged,  and 
so  loved,  there  came  a  double  pang,  —  the  thought  of  his 
own  sin,  and  the  agony  of  bereavement.  It  was  this  that 
crushed  him,  and  shut  out  all  consolation  from  his  heart. 
Thus  a  great  sin  will  always  bring  great  remorse.  The  con- 
sciousness of  pardon  may  quell  that  remorse  for  a  time,  but 
the  memory  of  the  past  can  never  die  ;  and  so  long  as  this 
life  lasts,  will  the  remembrance  of  crime  afflict  the  soul. 

"  I  have  killed  her,"  moaned  Philo  ;  and  this  was  his  only 
thought.  And  so  he  had,  for  was  there  ever  a  worse  crime 
than  his  ?  All  that  he  might  suffer  now  was  as  nothing 
when  compared  with  the  suffering  that  he  had  inflicted  on 
her.  Yes,  he  had  killed  her,  and  through  life  he  would 
have  to  carry  this  recollection. 


lii 


i! 


^^fll 


{  ■* 


212  The  Return  of  the  Prodigal  Son. 

Sadly  and  wearily  Helena  went  away  to  seek  some  rest 
and  sle<^p,  but  the  son  still  knelt  beside  bis  mother.  lie  had 
closed  her  eyes.  What  thoughts  had  he  as  he  knelt  there  ? 
Did  he  think  of  all  the  years  of  agony  which  had  been  hers; 
those  years  which  she  in  her  deep  love  had  tried  to  make 
him  believe  were  hapj)y  ones,  passed  in  the  society  of  kind 
and  sympathizing  friends  ;  or  did  he  think  rather  of  that  deep 
love  that  lived  in  her  latest  glance,  and  spoke  forth  in  her 
last  breath  ?  Wliatever  he  thought  of,  it  could  be  nothing 
less  to  him  than  utter  anguish.  For  the  love  which  she  ex- 
pressed, with  all  its  comfort,  brought  a  sting  with  it.  Tiiis 
was  the  love  that  he  had  outraged.  Ay,  let  him  kneel,  and 
cry ;  let  his  soul  wrestle  with  the  woe  of  that  bereavement. 
In  his  deepest  sorrow  he  will  oidy  feel  a  part  of  that  which 
she  had  to  endure  through  the  long  years  of  that  slavery  to 
which  he  had  doomed  her. 

The  days  passed,  and  the  time  came  when  she  must  be 
buried.  The  Christian  did  not  commit  the  body  of  his  dead 
to  the  flames.  Inspired  by  the  hope  of  the  resurrection,  he 
chose  rather  to  place  it  in  the  tomb.  He  was  unwilling  to 
reduce  it  to  ashes,  and  thought  even  the  funeral  flames  a  dis- 
honor to  that  body  which  he  considered  the  temple  of  God. 
There  was  a  place  which  the  Christians  of  Rome  had 
chosen  for  the  burial  of  their  dead,  which  seemed  to  have 
been  arranged  by  Providence  for  this  especial  purpose.  In 
so  crowded  a  city  as  Rome,  where  the  houses  ran  out  far 
into  the  country,  it  was  not  easy  to  find  a  place  which  could 
be  used  for  burial.  The  poor  were  interred  without  the 
Esquiline  gate.  The  rich  burned  the  bodies  of  their  dead, 
and  sometimes  buried  them,  but  they  had  private  tombs. 
For  the  Christians,  who  were  poor,  and  could  not  afford  to 
have  private  burial-places,  the  Esquiline  field  seemed  ab- 
horrent, partly  from  the  careless  way  in  which  the  bodies  were 
interred,  —  partly  from  the  crowded  state  of  the  field.  A 
higher  motive  also  made  them  turn  away  from  this  public 
burial-place.     They  looked  forward  always  to  the  resurrec- 


The  Return  of  the  Prodigal  Son.         213 


tion,  and  awaited  the  time  when  the  body  should  rise  at  the 
sound  of  the  last  trump.  They,  therefore,  chose  rather  some 
place  for  their  own  exclusive  use,  —  as  though  even  in  death 
they  wished  to  come  out  from  among  the  heathen  and  be 
separate. 

And  now  to  this  little  community,  with  these  findings  and 
desires,  there  appeared  a  place  which  offered  them  all  that 
they  wanted, —  a  place  destined  in  after  ages  to  be  filled  with 
Cliristian  dead,  and  sometimes  also,  in  seasons  of  persecu- 
tion, with  Christian  living,  who  should  seek  safety  there,  till 
in  the  end  it  should  become  a  vast  Christian  Nec;ropolis, 
a  wonder  to  later  times. 

They  found  it  not  outside  of  the  city,  but  beneath  it. 

For  ages  the  Romans  had  obtained  from  that  quarter  the 
sand  which  they  used  for  cement.  There  were  strata  of  this 
sand,  and  also  of  hard  volcanic  rock,  but,  in  addition  to  this, 
there  was  a  vast  extent  composed  of  soft,  porous  rock,  which 
was  very  easily  excavated.  Passages  had  already  been  cut 
throiigli  this  to  facilitate  the  conveyance  of  the  cement,  and 
it  was  in  these  subterranean  places  that  the  Christians  found 
a  place  for  their  dead. 

A  sad  procession  moved  from  the  house  of  Labeo,  carry- 
ing the  body  of  the  nurse  to  her  last  place  of  rest.  They 
traversed  a  large  part  of  the  city,  and  went  out  of  the  Porta 
Capena,  down  the  Appian  Way.  Here,  on  either  side,  arose 
the  tombs  of  the  great  families  of  Rome,  prominent  among 
all  the  mausoleum  of  Concilia  Metella. 

Not  far  from  this,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way,  there 
was  a  rude  shed,  under  which  was  an  opening,  with  steps  that 
led  down  under  ground.  Around  this  opening  were  heaps 
of  sand,  and  men  were  there,  whose  pallid  faces  showed  that 
they  were  the  fossors  who  excavated  the  sand  below.  Dowrj 
this  descent  the  funeral  procession  passed,  and  when  they 
had  reached  the  bottom  they  lighted  their  torches,  and  a  man 
who  seemed  familiar  with  the  place  led  them  along. 

This  man  led  the  way  with  an  unhesitating  step,  and  the 


214         ^^^  Return  of  the  Prodigal  Son, 

rest  followL  I.  It  was  a  wild,  weird  scene.  The  passage 
was  about  seven  feet  high,  and  not  more  than  four  feet  wide. 
The  walls,  on  either  side,  were  rough,  and  bore  the  marks  of 
exeavatlng  tools.  The  torches  served  to  illumine  the  scene 
but  faintly.  The  darkness  that  opened  before  them  was  in- 
tense. 

At  length  they  came  to  a  jilace  where  the  walls  wore 
covered  with  tablets.  Here  the  Christian  graves  began. 
These  tablets  bore  their  simple  epitaphs.  Often  these  epi- 
taphs were  rudely  cut,  and  badly  spelled,  but  in  a  few  the 
lettering  and  the  expression  were  more  elegant.  In  thorn 
all,  how(;ver,  the  sentiment  was  the  same,  —  a  sentiment 
which  showed  hope,  and  faith,  and  peace.  For  on  them  all 
was  this  one  word  —  Pe.ace. 


EUSEBIA  IN  THE   PkACE  OF    ClIUIST. 

Valeria  sleeps  in  Peace. 

CONSTANTIA    IN    PeACE. 

Lauiunia,  svveeteu  than  Honev,  slekps  in  Pea;:e. 

DOMITLVMS,    AN   INNOCENT    SoUL  SLEEPS  IN  PeACE. 

Such  epitaphs  as  these  appeared  on  both  sides  as  the  pro- 
cession moved  slowly  along,  and  spoke  in  the  most  expressive 
manner  of  that  peace  that  passeth  understanding,  which  the 
gospel  of  Christ  gives,  not  in  life  only,  but  even  in  the  mys- 
tery of  death. 

At  last  they  came  to  a  place  where  there  was  a  wider 
area.  There  was  something  like  a  small  chamber,  where 
the  roof  rose  to  a  height  of  about  fifteen  feet,  and  the  floor 
was  about  twenty  feet  in  diameter.  Here  the  bearers  laid 
down  the  bier,  and  all  stood  in  silence. 

Julius  was  there,  for  he  had  now  identified  himself  to  a 
great  extent  with  the  Christians.  Cineas  also  was  there, 
for  he  had  come  to  see  the  last  resting-place  of  one  in  whom 
he  had  taken  such  a  deep  interest.  Philo,  too,  was  there, 
still  crushed  by  his  grief,  and  kneeling  in  his  speechless  woe 
by  the  side  of  the  bier. 

But  there  was  another  there,  in  whose  face  a  lofty  enthu- 


The  Return  of  the  Prodigal  Son.         215 


siasm  had  driven  away  all  gloom.  lie  could  sympathize 
witli  the  sorrow  of  the  m((urn('r,  Itiit  he  saw  no  cause  to 
weep  for  the  dead.  He  had  h-arn^-d  something  of  that  mys- 
tery of  death,  which  enabled  him  to  triumph  over  its  terrors, 
and  he  could  speak  to  others  words  which  imparted  to  them 
his  own  high  confidence.  To  him  d"ath  was  nothing  that 
was  to  be  feared.  He  lived  a  life  wi...:h  made  him  brave  its 
worst  terrors  continually.  He  kn(!w  that  it  was  but  the  dawn 
of  another  life,  and  not  m(rely  the  end  of  this,  and  thought 
that  no  Christian  should  dread  that  from  which  Chris  ''ad 
taken  all  terror. 

Here,  then,  ami<l  the  gloom  of  a  sul^terranean  chamber 
which  was  only  lighted  by  the  red  glow  of  torches,  the  little 
company  gathered  around  the  dead  and  listened  to  the  words 
of  Paul. 

It  was  amid  the  gloom  of  this  under  world  that  Paul  lifted 
up  his  voice  in  prayer,  and  the  words  that  were  spoken  in 
that  prayer  were  such  as  well  suited  ;hc  place,  for  they  were 
tiie  cry  of  one  calling  "  out  of  the  depths,"  upon  that  One 
wiio  sat  enthroned  in  the  Highe^it,  but  ever  listening,  —  of, 
One  who  turned  from  the  darkness  of  earth,  typitied  in  these 
,><oinbre  vaults,  to  where  in  heaven  there  shone  the  light  of 
that  hope  which  is  full  of  immortality.  This  man  who 
prayed  here  was  one  who  told  others  to  pray  without  ceas- 
ing ;  prayer  with  him  was  the  breatli  of  his  life,  and  he  who 
tlius  prayed  for  himself  knew  best  how  to  pray  for  otliers. 
Yet  this  prayer  of  his  was  not  for  tlie  dead,  but  for  the  liv- 


ing. 


Now  the  voice  of  prayer  ceased,  and  all  stood  in  deep 
silence  round  the  form  of  the  departed.  The  grief  of  Philo 
was  communicated  to  these  tender,  these  sympathetic  hearts. 
Tliey  mingled  their  tears  with  his. 

But  now,  amid  the  silence,  there  arose  a  strain  so  sweet 
and  so  sad,  that  it  thrilled  through  all  the  being  of  Cineas, 
and  rang  in  his  memory  afterward  for  many  a  long  year. 

The  early  Christians  had  at  first  come  out  from  among 


2i6        The  Return  of  the  Prodigal  Son. 

the  Jews,  suul  in  tlicir  meetings  they  preserved  some  of  the 
traditions  of  the  synii<rogue.  The  chunts  of  old  psalms 
were  prominent  among  these.  The  Gentile  Christians 
adoi)ted  these  old  Jewish  forms,  and  the  chant  lived  side 
by  side  with  the  hymn. 

But  the  chant  that  arose  now  sounded  forth  words  to 
which  the  Christian  alone  could  attach  any  nteaning.  To 
the  Jew  in  his  synagogue  they  had  none.  To  the  Christian 
they  meant  everything  ;  they  were  divine  words,  which  car- 
ried within  them  a  lofty  consolation  at  all  times;  hut  now, 
over  the  form  of  the  dead,  and  among  the  graves  of  the  de- 
parted, they  gave  triumph  to  the  soul. 

"  I  know  that  my  Redeemer  livetli, 
And  that  lie  shall  stand,  at  the  latter  day,  upon  this  cnrtli: 
And  though  iiiler  my  skin,  worms  destroy  this  body, 
Yet  in  my  tlesh  sliuil  I  see  (lod: 
Wljom  I  shall  see  for  myself. 
And  n\ine  eyes  shall  behold,  and  not  another; 
Thouyh  my  veins  bo  consumed  within  mo." 


Down  through  the  long  vaulted  passages  the  sound  was 
borne,  passing  on,  in  its  wild  cadences,  till  it  died  out  in  hol- 
low murmurs  far  away.  And  the  hope,  and  the  solemn  ex- 
ultation of  that  song  seemed  to  convey  a  new  feeling  into  all 
the  hearers.  Cineas  bowed  his  head,  and  yielded  himself 
up  to  the  emotion  that  overpowered  all.  He  knew  to  whom 
and  to  what  that  song  referred.  The  Redeemer,  the  Resur- 
rection, these  were  its  themes ;  and  he  saw  something  which 
made  death  lose  its  terrors. 

And  there,  on  his  knees,  Philo  felt  a  new  rush  of  feeling, 
which  broke  in  upon  his  remorse  and  his  despair.  He  raised 
his  head,  and  looked  upward,  with  streaming  eyes ;  but  an 
expression  of  hope  was  on  his  face,  and  they  all  knew  that 
his  soul's  agony  had  at  last  been  conquered  by  faith. 

Next  to  redemption,  the  great  doctrine  that  attracted  the 
Christian  of  this  time  was  that  of  the  resurrection.      He 


The  Return  of  the  Prodigal  Son,        217 


M 


awiiitcd  from  tiny  to  dny  the  coming  of  the  Lord.  lie 
buried  his  dead,  and  know  that  at  \\w,  hist  trump  they  would 
rise  agJiin.  As  the  Lord  himself  had  rison,  so  would  all  his 
Ibliowers.  For  this  he  giurilied  (iod,  and  in  this  he  ex- 
ulted. 

In  this  doctrine  Paul  also  rejoiced,  and  preached  it  every- 
wliere.  It  was,  in  his  eyes,  one  of  the  grandest  facts  in 
Christianity.  It  gave  something  for  the  strong  reliance  of 
the  soul.  Yet  with  all  this  he  did  not  teach  that  the  soul 
should  sleep  till  this  resurrection,  or  that  it  could  not  exist 
without  the  body. 

While  he  cherished  so  ardently  this  grand  doctrine,  and 
laid  so  much  stress  on  the  resurrection,  he  had  no  idea  that 
tlic  soul,  after  death,  could  pass  into  even  a  temporary  ob- 
livion. For  he  habitually  spoke  of  his  desire  to  depart  and 
be  with  Christ,  knowing  that  his  departure  from  this  world 
would  be  an  immediate  entrance  into  the  next,  and  knowing, 
too,  as  he  himself  said,  that  to  be  absent  from  the  body  wa3 
to  he  present  with  the  Lord.  Best  of  all,  he  knew  it  from 
his  own  high  experience,  on  that  time  when  he  had  been 
caught  up  into  the  unutterable  glories  of  the  world  of  light. 

And  such  things  he  spoke  at  this  time,  and  his  words 
brought  new  comfort  to  the  bereaved  son. 

So  spake  those  Christians  who  in  after  ages  put  up  that 
epitaph  in  these  catacombs,  which  said, — 


"Alkxandeb  is  not  pead,  but  lives  above  the  stars,  and  hib 
body  rests  in  this  tomb." 


So  now  Paul  spake. 

"  Clymene  is  not  dead,  but  lives,  and  her  body  only  lies 
Iktc. 

"  A  short  time  only  has  passed,  and  our  eyes  are  not  yet 

<hy.     Yet  in  that  time,  in  that  new  and  boundless  life,  she 

lias  seen  things  unutterable,  and  learned  things  innumerable. 

She  has  viewed  her  Redeemer ;  she  has  seen  the  heavenly 

19 


i'^-<  -^ 


^ 

''il 

:'(l 

il 

'i 

idi 

l^i 

2i8         7)^6'  Return  of  the  Prodigal  Son. 

Jeru:^al(Mn,  anrl  the  general  assembly  and  church  of  the  first- 
born, whose  names  are  written  in  heaven.  Time  is  over, 
eternity  has  begun.  Already  she  looks  down  from  her  hap- 
piness on  our  tears." 

It  was  with  such  words  in  their  ears,  and  such  thoughts 
in  their  hearts,  that  the  little  company  lifted  the  body  of  the 
departed  in  her  last  resting-place. 

It  was  Philo  whose  hands  arranged  those  dear  remains, 
whose  eyes  took  the  last  look,  and  who  for  the  last  time 
pressed  her  cold  forehead  with  his  lips.  He  lifted  up  the 
tablet  which  shut  in  the  opening  of  the  narrow  cell,  and  on 
that  tablet  the^'e  were  the  following  words,  — 

"In  Christ — Peace. 

"  The  sorrow  op  Clymene  on  earth  led  to  everlasting  bliss 
IN  heaven.    Her  son  Philo  set  up  this  stone  in  tears." 


XXI. 


THE  RESOLVE. 

FTER  that  solemn  burial  scene,  Julius  made  up  his 
mind  to  delay  no  longer  about  a  step  which  he  had 
purposed  taking  tor  some  time. 

"  Why  should  I  not  join  them  at  once  ?  "  said  he 
to  Cineas.  "All  my  sympathies  are  with  them, 
and  have  been  now  for  a  long  time.  I  have  no  de- 
sires or  tastes  anywhere  else.  The  meek  lives  and 
the  mutual  affection  of  these  men  would  affect  me  even  if 
there  were  nothing  more ;  even  if  there  were  no  high  aim 
after  eternal  life,  which  pervades  all  their  thoughts,  and 
makes  this  life  seem  only  a  short  and  temporary  stay. 

"  And  now  I  find  that  this  aim  is  my  own  chief  desire.  I 
wish  to  secure  the  same  immortality,  and  besides,  that  im- 
mortal life  in  which  they  believe,  —  an  immortality  of  hap- 
piness and  of  love. 

"  Cineas,  I  long  and  yearn  to  be  one  of  them,  not  merely 
to  stand  among  tiiem  as  an  external  sympatlii/:er,  but  to  be 
numbered  among  them,  and  to  hear  and  give  the  salutation  of 
'  Brother.'  Could  I,  —  if  all  else  had  failed  to  move  me,  — 
could  I  be  unshaken  by  that  spectacle  of  radiant  hope  that 
but  lately  lighted  up  the  souls  of  those  who  buried  their  dead 
in  those  gloomy  vaults,  and  knew  that  the  departed  was  not 
(lead  but  alive,  and  knew  where  that  soul  was,  and  what  ? 
I  can  now  delay  no  longer.  I  believe  that  this  religion  is  ths 
nnclation  of  the  Supreme.  I  believe  that  Jesus  Cin-ist  is 
the  Son  of  God,  and  that  the  soul  that  believes  on  him  shall 
have  life  everlasting." 

(219) 


-^flp»J'-'r 


220 


The  Resolve, 


Cineas  heard  this  without  surprise,  for  he  well  knew  liow 
strongly  Julius  hud  been  drawn  towards  the  Christians  ever 
since  his  memorable  voyage  with  Paul.  He  felt  a  kind  of 
envy  of  his  friend,  and  for  a  moment  wished  that  he  himself 
might  have  the  same  calm  faith.  For  it  was  his  nature  to 
question  all  things  ;  he  struggled  with  doubt  that  rose  behind 
every  belief,  and  the  habit  of  a  lifetime  of  speculation  could 
not  readily  be  losi. 

"  I  am  glad,  my  friend,"  said  he,  in  tones  that  expressed  a 
pensive  melancholy,  "  glad  that  you  at  least  have  decided  so. 
For  me  it  is  very  different.  Yet  I  confess  that  I  am  shaken 
to  the  soul  by  the  memory  of  all  that  I  have  heard  and  seen. 
The  song  that  arose  out  of  those  vaults  seemed  to  me  like 
the  soul  of  the  dead  rising  from  the  gloom  of  the  sepulchre, 
and  soaring  upward  to  its  God.  I  admire  that  faith  which 
can  enter  into  the  mind  of  the  humblest  and  most  ignorant, 
and  make  him  believe  in  a  sph-itual  life,  and  live  so  as  to  at- 
tain to  it.  I  wonder,  too,  at  the  power  of  that  religion  which 
can  change  an  ignorant,  untutored  man,  and  make  him  turn 
all  his  thoughts  and  affections  to  a  lofty  spiritual  idea.  How 
comes  it?  You  will  answer  that  it  comes  from  God.  Be 
it  so.  At  any  rate,  all  that  I  know  is  that  he  has  not  yet 
given  to  me  a  belief  that  all  this  came  from  him. 

"  If  I  believed  as  you  do,  with  your  unquestioning  ftiith,  I 
would  do  as  you  propose,  at  any  sacrifice.  But  I  do  not  and 
cannot  believe  so." 

"  But  why  not  ?  "  said  Julius.  "  Does  not  Plato  himself 
testify  to  the  trutli  of  an  Incarnate  God?  You  yourself 
have  often  acknowledged  that  God  might  descend  among 
men.  If  so,  is  it  difficult  to  believe  that  he  might  suffer?  I 
do  not  know  so  much  as  you,  but  I  have  studied  Plato,  and 
well  I  remember  how  the  master  used  to  comment  on  some 
wonderful  passages.  Do  you  not  remember  how  Socrates 
says  :  —  'It  is  not  possible  that  any  man  should  be  safe,  who 
sincerely  opposes  either  you  or  any  other  people,  and  who 
prevents  many  unjust  and  illegal  acts  from  being  committed 


The  Resolve. 


221 


in  a  state  ? '  Socrates  affirms  that  to  a  holy  being  death  is 
immiaent.  And  do  you  not  remember  the  well-known  defi- 
nition of  the  just  man  in  the  discussion  about  justice,  in  the 
second  book  of  the  Republic,  where  the  speaker,  after  men- 
tioning the  just  man,  goes  on  to  maintain  that  the  Just  One 
should  have  nothing  but  his  own  righteousness,  to  sustain 
him  ?  '  Let  him  be  without  everything  except  righteousness ; 
without  doing  injustice,  too,  let  him  have  the  reputation  of 
the  greatest,  in  order  that  he  may  be  put  to  the  test  for  jus- 
tice, and  not  be  moved  to  reproach  and  its  consequences,  but 
rather  be  unchangeable  till  death,  seeming,  indeed,  to  be  un- 
just through  life,  though  really  just.' 

"  Do  you  not,  above  all,  remember  what  the  speaker  in  that 
dialogue  affirmed  would  be  the  lot  of  such  a  man  ?  '  The 
Just  One,  thus  situated,  will  be  scourged,  tortured,  fettered, 
have  his  eyes  burned  out,  and  after  suffering  all  manner  of 
evils,  will  at  last  be  crucifed.' " 

These  words  were  spoken  by  Julius  with  a  solemnity  and 
an  emphasis  that  showed  how  deep  a  meaning  he  attached 
to  them.  He  then  remained  silent  for  a  time,  and  Cineas, 
who  seemed  quite  startled,  said  nothing.  The  passage  was 
well  known  to  him  ;  it  had  come  up  more  than  once  in  the 
discussions  of  "  the  master,"  but  though  he  had  been  famiiiar 
with  the  character  of  Christ  for  some  time,  it  had  never  oc- 
curred to  him  to  refer  it  to  him.  Now,  when  he  saw  them 
so  applied,  he  saw  the  full  meaning  of  Julius.  For  Christ 
wart  in  his  eyes  the  All  Holy,  the  Perfect  Just,  the  One  who 
in  his  life  was  considered  unjust  by  his  enemies,  who  was 
slandered  and  reviled,  who  had  nothing  of  his  own  except 
his  righteousness  and  holiness.  And  what  was  his  fate  ? 
Was  not  he  scourged  and  tortured  ?  Was  not  he,  after  suf- 
fering all  manner  of  evils,  finally  crucified  ?  This  thought 
for  a  time  overwhelmed  Cineas,  and  Julius,  seeing  the  effect 
of  it,  said  nothing. 

At  length  Cineas  recovered  himself. 

"  Most  admirable  is  your  argument,  Julius,"  said  he. 

19* 


222 


The  Resolve, 


"  Plato  is  assuredly  a  witness  for  Christ,  and  I  am  glad  that 
you  have  shown  me  a  new  application  for  these  passages.  I 
am  quite  willing  to  read  them  as  you  do.  For  I  admire  the 
pure  and  unsullied  character  of  the  One  whom  you  so  love ; 
I  revere  his  lofty  virtue,  and  his  constancy  till  the  end.  Of 
all  these  I  have  heard  enough  to  touch  my  heart.  But  you 
ask  of  me  far  more  than  thit, 

"  I  will  go  so  far  as  to  say,  that  if  God  should  manifest 
himself  to  man,  such  a  manifestation  as  this  would  not  be 
unworthy  even  of  the  Deity.  Such  a  life  as  this  might  not 
be  inconsistent  with  divine  grandeur.  But  when  you  ask 
me  to  look  at  him  on  the  cross,  I  recoil  in  horror.  Can  this 
be  the  Divine  One  who  thus  endures  death  ? 

"  I  pass  by  the  shame,  the  insult,  and  the  agony.  I  look 
only  at  the  one  fact  of  death.  It  matters  not  to  me  that,  as 
you  say,  he  rose  again.  I  can  look  no  farther  than  the  one 
fact  of  his  death.  That  is  enough.  To  me  it  is  simply  in- 
conceivable that  God,  under  any  circumstances,  should  suf- 
fer death." 

To  this  Julius  answered,  that  Christ  died  to  atone  for  sin. 
All  men  are  sinners,  and  subject  to  the  wrath  of  God.  Un- 
less they  can  obtain  pardon,  they  must  suffer  forever. 

To  this  doctrine  Cineas  expressed  the  strongest  repug- 
nance. 

"  I  acknowledge,"  said  he,  "  that  there  is  much  sin  in  the 
world,  but  a  large  number  of  men  are  simple,  good-hearted 
folk,  and  to  say  that  they  are  under  God's  wrath,  and  liable 
to  eternal  punishment,  seems  so  shocking  that  I  do  not  think 
it  deserves  discussion. 

"  To  'pardon  sin,  you  say.  What  sin  ?  I  deny  that  all 
men  are  sinners.  I  know  many  good,  and  wise,  and  holy 
men,  who  have  done  nothing  to  merit  any  future  punish- 
ment, and  who,  in  fact,  should  receive  in  the  future  nothing 
but  blessedness.  For  myself,  I  do  not  see  what  I  have  done 
that  needed  such  suffering  on  my  behalf.  You  will  say  that 
he  died  for  me.     Why  should  he  die  for  me  ?     What  pun- 


The  Resolve. 


223 


repug- 

in  the 
Ihearted 
liable 
)t  tliink 

Ithat  all 
lid  holy 
I  punish- 
I  nothing 
Ive  done 
kay  that 
it  pun- 


ishment have  I  deserved  that  he  should  take  it  upon  him- 
self and  suffer  in  my  place  ? 

"  I,  from  my  earliest  youth,  have  tried  to  seek  after  truth, 
and  God.  Is  this  sin  ?  I  have  given  myself  up  to  this  life- 
long pursuit.  Have  I  incurred  God's  wrath,  —  the  wrath 
of  One  whom  my  soul  craves  to  know  and  seeks  to  love  ? 

"  Have  I  not  sought  after  him  all  my  life  ?  Do  T  noi  now 
esteem  the  knowledge  of  him  the  greatest  blessing  that  can 
come  to  man,  and  will  he  turn  away  his  face  forever  from 
one  who  seeks  above  all  to  know  him  ?  I  have  always  en- 
deavored to  live  a  pure  life,  and  will  you  tell  me  that  eternal 
punishment  lies  before  me  ?  For  what  ?  What  have  I  ever 
done  ?  Can  you  believe  this,  and  yet  affirm  that  God  is 
just?" 

This  brought  on  a  long  discussion.  Julius  undertook  to 
show  that  sin  lies  in  thought  as  well  as  action,  and  that  he 
who  would  examine  his  own  heart,  and  compare  himself 
with  what  he  ought  to  be,  would  see  that  he  was  a  sinner. 
On  the  other  hand,  Cineas  maintained  that  such  things  as 
these  were  not  sins,  but  merely  imperfections,  for  which  no 
one  was  responsible,  or,  at  any  rate,  if  any  one  was  respon- 
silile,  it  could  only  be  the  Creator. 

The  discussion  then  went  off  into  wide  questions,  but 
nothing  could  be  accomplished  either  in  one  way  or  another. 
They  iuul  no  common  giound  here.  Cineas  complained 
that  Julius  persisted  in  seeing  sin  in  those  thoughts  and 
words  which  he  himself  considered  perfectly  harmless ;  that 
he  gave  no  credit  to  the  noble  acts  of  valor  and  patriotism 
which  men  perform,  but  affirmed  that  no  soul  could  be  saved 
by  these. 

"  Your  whole  doctrine  of  sin,"  said  he,  "  is  so  excessively 
repugnant  that  the  discussion  is  painful.  Indeed,  a  discus- 
sion on  such  a  subject  seems  to  me  to  be  useless.  It  is  a 
good  and  a  pleasant  world  that  we  see  around  us,  and  to  ap- 
ply the  name  sinners  to  the  '  kindly  race  of  men,'  seems  like 
saying  that  the  world  is  all  dark,  even  in  its  bright  day- 
time. 


II 


I 


224 


The  Resolve. 


i 


"  But  Julius,"  he  said,  in  conclusion.  "  Believe  rac,  I  am 
not  one  who  brings  up  a  score  of  petty  objections  to  a  pure 
and  elevated  religion  for  an  idle  purpose.  I  am  distressed. 
I  am  per{)lexed.  I  wish  that  this  Christianity  of  yours  could 
be  made  acceptable  to  me.     But  it  cannot  be. 

"  Go  on  as  you  propose.  My  heart  shall  be  with  you.  I 
will  stand  where  I  am,  and  in  my  doubt  will  still  pray  to 
Him,  and  if,  as  I  have  always  believed,  he  indeed  hoars 
prayer,  then  surely  he  will  at  some  time  hear  mine,  feeble 
though  it  be,  if  not  in  this  life,  yet  perhaps  in  the  next." 

Julius  seized  the  hand  of  his  friend,  and  pressed  it  ear- 
nestly :  — 

"  There  are  many  prayers  ascending  for  you,  and  He  who 
has  promised  to  hear  all  prayer,  will  surely  hear  those  which 
bear  up  your  name  to  his  ears.  As  to  this  question  about 
sin,  I  can  only  say  that  I  once  thought  as  you  do,  but  lately 
I  seem  to  have  received  a  great  light  in  my  soul,  and  have 
seen  that  I  am  sinful.  Whatever  yon  may  be,  I  at  least 
needed  all  that  Christ  has  done.  I  deserved  suffering ;  he 
bore  it  for  me.  I  believe  in  him,  and  give  myself  up  to  him, 
for  this  life  and  for  the  life  to  come." 

"  This  light  that  comes  to  your  mind,"  said  Cineas,  "  is 
something  that  I  have  never  experienced.  I  must  move  on 
in  obedience  to  a  logical  process.  I  must  obey  reason  above 
all  things.  A  theory  stated  in  so  many  words  is  not  enough, 
I  must  test  it.  If  it  will  not  stand  questioning,  how  am  I  to 
receive  it  ?  But  I  will  talk  no  more  of  myself.  Think  of 
me  as  one  who  approves  of  what  you  are  doing,  and  who 
deems  you  happier  than  himself.  It  has  been  my  lot  to  see 
Christianity  bringing  peace  and  comfort  to  many  minds  that 
had  been  disturbed  by  much  sorrow.  It  brings  happiness. 
May  you  possess  all  the  happiness  that  it  can  give." 

"  That  happiness  will  yet  be  yours,  too,  my  best  of  friends, 
I  doubt  not.  A  longer  time  will  be  needed,  but  you  will  at 
last  see  the  truth  as  it  is  in  Jesus." 


jMMh, 


XXII. 


SON  AND  FATHER. 

HEN  Julius  informed  his  father  of  his  decision  he 
met  with  a  storm  of  indignant  rebuke.  The  old 
man  hated  Christianity  because  it  came  from  Syria. 
He  indulgeu  in  his  usual  strain  of  invective  against 
the  vices  of  the  age,  and  declared  that  Syria  had 
ruined  all  things. 

"  Don't  tell  me,"  he  cried,  "  that  Christianity  is 
different.  It  cannot  be.  It  is  impossible  for  any  good  .thing 
to  come  out  of  Syria.  The  people  are  incurably  vicious. 
From  immemorial  ages  it  has  been  the  chosen  seat  of  all 
vice,  and  profligacy,  and  obscenity.  You  are  deceived,  fool- 
ish boy.  You  are  beguiled  by  a  fair  exterior.  Wait  till 
you  learn  the  actual  practice  of  these  Christians.  For  my 
part  I  believe  all  that  the  people  say  about  them.  I  believe 
that  they  indulge  in  horrid  vices  in  their  secret  meetings,  in 
those  out  of  the  way  places  where  no  honest  man  ever 
thinks  of  going.  Don't  tell  me  I  am  wrong.  I  am  right, 
and  I  know  it.  You  will  find  this  out  some  day.  There  is 
nothing  but  foulness  in  everything  Syrian,  Rome  is  full  of 
it.  What  other  curse  has  Rome  but  this?  Go  to  all  the 
most  infamous  scoundrels  in  the  city  and  ask  them  where 
they  come  from.     There  is  only  one  place,  —  Syria." 

So  the  old  man  morosely  railed  on.  Nothing  could  induce 
iiim  to  listen  to  the  explanation  of  Julius.  Nothing  could 
make  him  think  that  the  Christians  were  in  any  way  differ- 
ent from  the  followers  of  other  Syrian  su])erstitions,  with 
which  the  city  was  filled.  He  miMiaced  Julius  with  his 
fiercest  wrath.     He  swore  he  would  disown  liim,  cast  him 

(225) 


llM 


226 


Son  and  Father. 


f  f 


off,  and  curse  him.  There  was  an  excited  and  painful  inter- 
view. The  old  man  stormed.  Julius  entreated  to  be  heard, 
but  in  vain.  At  last  he  told  his  father,  mildly,  that  he  wiis 
a  man,  responsible  only  to  himself,  and  would  do  this,  what- 
ever the  consequences  might  be.  Whereupon  old  Carbo 
turned  purple  with  rage,  bade  him  begone,  and  cursed  Lira 
to  his  face. 

.Tulius  went  away  sadly,  but  his  conscience  sustained  him. 
A  father's  curse  was  a  terrible  thing,  but  he  knew  that  the 
impetuous  old  man  would  one  day  relent.  He  could  not 
maintain  anger  or  malice  for  any  length  of  time.  So  the 
son  expected  some  future  time  of  reconciliation.  Carbo 
'.uuld  see  his  error,  and  be  willing  to  receive  his  son  back 
again  to  his  heart. 

Thus  Julius  joined  himself  to  the  Christians,  whom  he  had 
leai'ned  to  love,  and  whose  faith  he  at  last  fully  received. 
When  once  he  had  entered  that  society,  and  become  an  ac- 
knowledged follower  of  Christ,  he  found  greater  happiness 
than  ever  he  had  known  before.  He  now  fully  shared  the 
hopes,  the  fears,  the  sorrows,  and  the  joys  of  this  little  com- 
munity, who  were  still  small  in  number,  but  felt  that  they 
possessed  the  Truth  that  came  down  from  God.  And  what 
else  on  earth  could  he  deSire  beside  this?  Honor,  and 
power,  and  wealth,  seemed  poor  in  comparison  with  that 
which  he  really  possessed. 

Paul  had  been  in  Rome  for  nearly  three  years,  and  at 
length  decided  to  depart,  leaving  this  young  Roman  church 
to  the  care  of  other  hands  and  to  God.  Other  countries  de- 
manded his  services.  He  had  told  the  people  of  his  inten- 
tion, and  they,  though  sorely  distressed  at  the  thought  of 
losing  him,  nevertheless  fully  believed  that  the  apostle  fol- 
lowed the  voice  of  God,  and  meekly  acquiesced.  They 
would  not  claim  all  the  labors  of  Paul  for  themselves.  They 
knew  that  other  lands  needed  him,  and  in  their  earnest  de- 
sire for  the  salvation  of  other  souls,  they  were  willing  to  let 
him  go.  ' 


Son  mid  Father. 


227 


and  at 

church 

ies  de- 

inten- 

rht  of 


tie  fol- 
They 
They 

lest  de- 
to  let 


Others  went  with  him,  but  chief  among  his  followers  was 
Philo.  In  the  months  that  had  succeeded  his  mother's  death 
lie  had  "returned  to  his  former  calm.  Still  troubled  often  by 
his  ever-recurring  remorse,  he  thought  the  best  antidote  to 
grief  would  be  found  in  incessant  action.  He  gave  himself 
up  with  the  most  ardent  devotion  to  the  cause  which  he 
loved.  As  the  world  was  nothing  to  him,  he  fixed  his  heart 
and  his  thoughts  with  peculiar  intensity  on  the  world  oa 
high.  In  the  yearning  of  his  soul  he  thought  that  the  spirit 
of  iiis  mother  might  yet  regard  him,  and  that  the  love  which 
she  had  borne  still  lived  in  her  heart,  in  the  new  life  which 
she  had  found. 

He  himself  was  but  weak  and  feeble.  Either  from  exces- 
sive nervousness,  which  he  had  inherited  from  his  mother, 
or  from  the  results  of  early  dissipation,  or  the  grief  of  later 
years,  or  from  all  these  combined,  his  constitution  was  shat- 
tered, and  his  pale,  emaciated  face,  and  glowing  eyes  showed 
that  in  his  frame  he  carried  the  seeds  of  death.  Yet  in  spite 
of  suffering,  and  weakness,  he  labored  incessantly,  and  chose 
to  accompany  Paul,  because  he  knew  that  with  such  a  leader 
he  would  encounter  the  greatest  peril,  and  be  summoned  to 
the  severest  labor. 


rriif' 


Ml  -t 


i...^. 
f"'^ 


'1^^ 


.B;i 


<»iil 


., 


xxrii. 


THE  BURNING   OF  ROME. 


None  memorable  evening  Lydia  find  her  father  were 
together  in  their  room,  and  Lydia  at  her  father's 
request  was  reading  that  h'tter  which  Paul  had 
written  to  the  Christians  at  Rome  before  his  visit, 


I 

[S^      «'md  which  had  always  been  prized  by  them  most 

<^  The    centurion    sat    in    deep   attention   lost    in 

thought,  and  in  such  a  profound  abstraction  that  he  thought 
of  nothing  except  those  divine  words  which  fell  upon  his 
ears.  But  the  reader  was  strangely  disturbed  and  often 
paused. 

For  outside  there  arose  strange,  mysterious  sounds,  the 
voices  of  a  vast  multitude,  and  mingled  cries  of  fear  and 
excitement.  It  was  as  though  all  the  population  of  the 
city  had  gone  forth  into  the  streets  on  some  great  purpose, 
but  under  some  such  impulse  as  fear.  For  the  cries  were 
wild  and  startling,  and  panic  reigned  and  terror  was  stalking 
abi'oad. 

In  vain  Lydia  tried  to  read  calmly.  Calmness  was  impos- 
sible when  the  clamor  grew  every  moment  louder  and  louder, 
and  outside  the  cries  of  men  were  borne  to  her  ears,  and 
inside,  in  every  part  of  the  vast  edifice  in  whose  topmost 
story  they  lived,  there  was  the  noise  of  people  hurrying  to 
and  fro,  and  loud  calls  from  one  to  another  in  tones  of  fear, 
and  all  the  signs  of  universal  trepidation  and  alarm. 

At  last  a  lurid  glow  flashed  into  the  chamber,  and  Lydia 

started,  and  cast  a  fearful  glance  out  of  the  window.     The 

(228) 


The  Burning  of  Rome. 


ii() 


plow  paspofl  away  and  all  was  dark  onco  more.  She  feared 
and  could  scarcely  find  voice  to  go  on  with  her  task.  Before 
her  arose  the  terror  of  fire,  which  was  always  the  ever-pres- 
ent danger  to  all  the  {)opulation  of  Rome.  It  was  only  by  a 
mighty  effort  that  she  was  able  to  go  on.  She  proceeded, 
and  read  :  — 

"  What  shall  we  say  then  to  these  things  ?  If  God  be  for 
us  who  can  be  against  us  ?  He  that  spared  not  his  own 
Son,  but  freely  gave  him  up  for  us  all,  how  shall  he  not  with 
him  also  freely  give  us  all  things  ?  Who  shall  lay  anything  to 
the  cliarge  of  God's  elect  ?  It  is  God  that  justifieth.  Who 
is  ho  that  condemneth  ?  It  is  Christ  that  died  ;  yea,  rather, 
that  is  risen  again;  who  is  even  at  the  right  hana  of  God, 
who  also  maketh  intercession  for  us.  Who  shall  separate  us 
from  the  love  of  Christ  ?  Shall  tribulation,  or  distress,  or 
persecution,  or  famine,  or  nakedness,  or  peril,  or  sword  ? 
As  it  is  written  :  — 


:st 


I  ■ .;  '!£;■ 


"  '  For  thy  sake  we  are  killed  all  the  day  long; 
We  are  accounted  as  sheep  for  the  slaughter.' 


yii  WL 


king 


and 
most 
ig  to 
i'our, 

jydia 
The 


"  Nay,  in  all  these  things  we  are  more  than  conquerors, 
through  him  that  loved  us.  For  I  am  persuaded,  that 
neither  death,  nor  life,  nor  angels,  nor  principalities,  nor  pow- 
er?, nor  things  present,  nor  things  to  come,  nor  height,  nor 
depth,  nor  any  other  creature  shall  be  able  to  separate  us 
from  the  love  of  God  which  is  in  Christ  Jesus  our  Lord." 

During  the  reading  of  this  the  cries  and  the  clamor  had 
increased,  but  the  centurion  heard  nothing.  He  sat  with 
folded  arms,  and  eyes  half  closed,  looking  upward  with  an 
ecstatic  expression  on  his  face,  and  with  his  lips  moving  as  he 
•whispered  the  words  after  his  daughter. 

But  as  Lydia  ended,  there  came  another  lurid  flash,  which 
now  did  not  pass  away,  but  continued,  steadily  prolonging 
itself,  and  growing  redder  and  more  menacing. 

Lydia  uttered  a  cry  and  the  book  fell  from  her  hands. 

The  centurion  started  and  asked  what  was  the  matter. 
20 


81= 


Wk  I 


230 


The  Burning  of  Rome. 


Lydia  pointetl  out  of  the  window. 

In  an  instant  the  centuiion  was  recalled  to  himself. 

For  it  was  a  terrible  yij^ht  that  now  appeared. 

The  whole  sky  was  red  with  flame ;  myriads  of  sparks 
floated  along  carried  swiftly  past  them,  and  great  clouds  of 
dense  smoke  rolled  by  sometimes  obscuring  the  light  of  tlic 
Are  for  a  moment,  but  only  to  let  it  shine  out  again  with  frc^ii 
brilliancy.     That  territic  glare  grew  brighter  every  second. 

The  centurion  threw  open  a  window  in  the  roof,  and 
ascended  a  ladder,  and  stood  outside.  Lydia  followed  him. 
A  cry  involuntarily  escaped  the  old  man's  lips  as  he  took  a 
glance  around.  Near  mount  Palatine,  between  it  and  the 
Caelian  mount,  was  the  circus.  Here  there  was  an  intense 
glow  of  light  which  dazzled  the  eyes.  Advancing  from 
this  quarter  the  flames  came  rolling  on  directly  toward  the 
street  in  which  they  lived.  They  saw  the  fire  leaping  from 
house  to  house  in  its  fierce  march,  and  moving  on  remorse- 
lessly to  their  own  abode. 

The  wind  was  high,  and  the  roar  of  the  flames  could  be 
heard,  as,  fanned  by  that  wind,  they  swept  over  the  habi- 
tations of  man.  There  had  been  a  long  season  of  drought, 
and  everything  in  the  city  was  parched  and  dry.  The  old 
houses  with  their  numerous  stories,  that  rose  up  so  loftily, 
were  like  tinder,  and  caught  the  flame  as  easily  as  possible. 
The  prospect  before  them  was  not  merely  their  own  destruc- 
tion, but  universal  calamity. 

Below,  there  came  up  a  louder  cry,  and  the  rush  of  a  vast 
multitude  through  the  narrow  streets,  and  shrieks  from  terri- 
fied women.  The  noise  was  more  terrific  than  the  fire.  It 
was  as  though  all  Rome  was  in  the  streets,  flying  from  that 
dread  calamity  which  threatened  all  alike.  For  although 
Rome  was  accustomed  to  fires,  yet  this  was  worse  than  any- 
thing which  it  had  known,  and  the  drought  had  served  to 
prepare  the  city  for  the  destroyer,  and  all  men  felt  that  this 
fierce  flame,  so  often  kept  back  and  resisted,  would  now  bo 
triumphant. 


The  fhirnhig  of  Rome. 


231 


Bui  Lydiii  littered  aiinthor  cr^  ''  fear;  nnrl  seizing  her 
fiillicr's  arm  pointed  away  toward  the  opposite  side. 

Tliere  was  need  tor  t"ar.  There  too  was  fire.  Not  in 
one  place,  or  in  two,  but  in  many.  Briglit  glowing  spots 
flecked  the  dark  forms  of"  the  houses,  where  the  flames 
leaped  up,  and  spread  on,  and  enfolded  all  things  before 
them.  So  many  of  these  fires  appeared  that  it  seemed  as 
tlioiij^h  they  were  surrounded  by  a  circle  of  flame. 

"  0  father  1 "  cried  Lydia,  "  what  is  this  ?  Is  this  then  the 
lust  day  ? 

"  See  father,  —  all  the  woi'ld  seems  to  be  on  fire.  Will 
the  last  summons  come  ?  " 

"  I  know  not,  my  daughter,  —  who  can  tell  ?  "  answered  the 
centurion.  "  But  fear  not,  my  child.  While  I  live  I  will 
protect  you,  —  and  if  this  is  even  the  last  day  you  have 
nothing  to  fear.". 

"  0  father,"  cried  Lydia,  shuddering  ;  "  the  flames  encircle 
U8.  Where  can  we  fly  to  ?  We  are  enclosed  in  a  ring  of 
fire,  and  I  can  see  no  opening." 

"  No,"  said  the  centurion,  in  calm,  courageous  tones.  "The 
fire  advances  from  the  circus ;  the  wind  blows  the  flames 
towards  us.  The  only  danger  is  on  that  side.  On  the  other 
side  tlie  fire  that  you  see  is  caused  by  the  falling  sparks  that 
have  been  kindled  on  the  dry  houses.  There  is  no  danger 
there.     We  can  easily  pass  on." 

"  Oh,  then  let  us  fly." 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  centurion,  "  we  must  haste.  We 
must  leave  everything.  Well,  we  have  not  much  to  lose. 
I  will  put  on  my  armor,  and  do  you  clothe  yourself  warmly. 
Tliere  is  no  use  to  try  to  save  anything.  The  manuscript  is 
Jill  that  we  can  carryi  ia.vvay." 

Hastily  they  made  their  preparations,  and  at  last  the 
centurion  in  full  armor  hurried  away,  followed  by  his  daugh- 
ter, who  clung  elosely  to  him. 

On  their  way  down  they  found  the  stairs  filled  with  peo- 
ple, ascending  and  descending,  carrying  their  movables,  and 


i  I 


232 


The  Burning  of  Rome. 


trying  to  save  something  of  their  property.  "With  great  dif- 
ficulty they  passed  through  this  crowd,  and  at  last  reached 
the  street.  But  her';  they  found  further  progress  impos- 
sible, for  a  vast  crowd  filled  that  street,  and  stood  still,  locked 
together,  and  stopped  by  something  at  the  end.  Out  of  all 
the  houses  people  were  pouring,  and  the  crowd  here  could 
not  easily  move  till  all  the  houses  before  them  were  emptied. 

"  Father !  father !  we  are  lost !  "  cried  Lydia. 

"  No,  my  daughter,"  said  her  father,  "  do  not  fear.  I  have 
seen  many  such  sights  as  this,  —  too  many.  I  am  a  soldier, 
and  have  been  familiar  with  burning  cities.  It  will  take  an 
hour  for  the  flames  to  get  to  this  house,  and  before  that  time 
the  crowd  will  dissolve  and  move  away.     Trust  in  me." 

The  time  passed,  and  slowly,  too,  for  those  who  thus  stood 
in  suspense,  but  the  crowd  did  not  make  much  progress. 
Wedged  in  this  narrow  street,  it  seemed  as  though  the 
wretched  fugitives  could  never  escape.  And  every  moment 
brought  the  flames  nearer. 

At  length  the  houses  at  the  head  of  the  street  began  to 
burn.  Louder  shrieks  arose,  and  hundreds,  despairing  of  es- 
cape by  the  street,  rushed  back  into  the  houses  and  clam- 
bered to  the  roofs,  along  which  they  passed.  Vast  numbers 
saw  this  and  followed  the  idea.  The  streets  were  sensibly 
relieved,  the  crowd  grew  thinner,  and  it  seemed  as  though 
escape  might  yet  be  possible. 

And  now  the  flames  had  come  so  near  that  the  heat  could 
be  felt,  and  the  smoke  that  streamed  past  almost  suffocated 
the  crowds  in  the  street.  Lydia  began  to  survey  the  possi- 
ble fate  that  lay  before  her,  and  expected  death,  but  said 
nothing.     At  last  the  centurion  spoke,  — 

"  I  would  have  tried  the  roof  before,  but  I  felt  afraid  about 
you.  I  think,  after  all,  we  had  better  try  it.  If  the  people 
do  not  move  faster  they  will  be  destroyed.  I  would  not  let 
myself  be  wedged  in  that  crowd.  If  I  have  to  die  I  would 
rather  die  here." 

Lydia  uttered  a  low  <^-"  and  clung  to  her  father.  From 
these  words  she  knew  that  death  was  near. 


The  Btirtiing  of  Ro7ne. 


233 


"But  courage,  my  darling.  Follow  me  and  be  firm. 
There  is  no  danger." 

The  centurion  turned,  and  already  had  his  foot  on  the 
lower  stair,  when  a  tremendous  crash  against  the  wall  of 
their  building  startled  him. 

Lydia  almost  swooned  with  terror. 

But  the  centurion  uttered  a  cry  of  joy.  Again  and  again 
the  sound  came,  with  cries  of  men,  but  not  cries  of  fear.  It 
was  a  familiar  sound  to  his  ears.  Often  had  he  heard  that 
sound  before  the  walls  and  gates  of  beleaguered  cities. 

"  We  are  saved  !  "  cried  Eubulus.  "  Help  is  near.  It  is 
the  battering-ram." 

"  The  battering-ram  ?  "  said  Lydia,  in  a  puzzle. 

"  The  soldiers  are  here.  They  are  breaking  a  way  through 
for  the  crowd.     Thank  God !     Thank  God  ! " 

The  blows  grew  fiercer,  and  the  sound  came  nearer.  The 
calls  of  the  leader  and  the  shouts  of  the  men  were  distinctly 
audible.  The  voice  of  that  leader  seemed  familiar.  Lydia's 
heart  beat  faster  as  she  thought  that  she  recognized  it. 

At  last  the  wall  close  behind  them  came  down  with  a 
crash,  shattered  by  a  tremendous  stroke,  and  a  cry  of  tri- 
umph arose  from  the  room  beyond.  Another  and  another 
blow  and  all  the  wall  was  broken  through.  Then  a  man 
dashed  through  the  ruin  and  rushed  to  the  door. 

It  was  Julius. 

The  moment  that  he  saw  them  he  seized  Lydia's  hand, 
and  in  a  voice  broken  with  emotion,  he  cried,  "  My  God,  I 
thank  thee !  " 

Then  in  an  instant  he  called  to  the  crowd  in  the  streets. 

"  This  way.  This  way.  The  soldiers  have  broken  a  way 
through  to  the  Suburra ! " 

A  cry  of  joy  was  the  response. 
.  On  the  instanc  the  great  crowd  made  a  spring  at  that 
door. 

Julius  lifted  Lydia  in  his  arms,  as  though  she  were  a  child, 
and  rushed  off,  followed  by  the  centurion.     A  wide  passage 
20* 


'  jiim.ii|iiii||tUi|aitiWii 


234 


The  Burning  of  Rome. 


had  been  knoLl:''(l  away  through  a  whole  block  of  houses, 
the  huge  beams  supported  the  mass  overhead,  preventinff 
them  from  falling  in,  and  the  new  avenue  was  almost  as 
wide  as  the  nai'row  street.  Julius  went  on,  carrying  Lydia, 
and  followed  by  Eubulus ;  behind  them  came  the  soldiers, 
and  after  them  streamed  the  wild  crowd. 

At  last  they  came  to  the  Suburra.  Here  Julius  put  Lydia 
down,  and  the  soldiers  advanced  before  them  and  behind, 
foi'cing  their  way.  -. 

Tlu'  heavens  were  all  aglow  with  the  blaze.  Lydia  looked 
toward  the  place  from  which  they  had  just  come,  and  shud- 
dered to  see  the  fire  spreading  over  those  very  roofs  by 
which  they  had  thought  of  escaping.  She  now  knew  how 
desperate  was  their  situation. 

Around  them  there  was  the  wildest  confusion.  A  vast 
mass  of  human  beings  hurried  along,  obeying  one  common 
impulse  of  fear,  not  knowing  where  to  go,  but  expecting  to 
get  to  some  place  of  temporary  safety.  Great  wagons  rolled 
along,  filled  with  furniture  wliich  some  had  sought  to  save ; 
lines  of  litters  borne  by  slaves  conveyed  away  the  wealthier 
citizens ;  and  men  on  horseback  mingled  with  the  crowd  on 
foot. 

But  the  crowd  on  foot  was  most  pitiable,  as  the  people 
struggled  along.  Some  were  carrying  bits  of  furniture, 
hastily  snatched  up,  which  they  gradually  got  rid  of  as  they 
found  themselves  overpowered  by  fatigue ;  othei"s  carried 
bundles  of  clothing ;  others  boxes,  which  contiiined  all  their 
worldly  wealth.  Some  carried  along  their  sick  friends, 
Avhose  groans  were  added  to  the  general  uproar;  others 
their  little  children,  whose  cries  of  fear  came  up  shrilly  and 
sharply  amid  the  confusion. 

Amid  that  crowd  there  were  families  separated,  who  vainly 
sought  to  find  one  another.  Husbands  called  after  wives, 
and  wives  after  husbands ;  fathers  called  the  names  of  their 
children ;  but  what  was  saddest  of  all,  was  the  sight  of  hun- 
dreds of  little  children  intermixed  with  the  crowd,  and  some- 


The  Burning  of  Rotne. 


235 


times  pressed,  and  knocked  down,  and  trampled  under  foot, 
shrieking  with  fear,  and  crying  frantically,  "  father ! " 
"  mother ! "  But  who  could  help  them  ?  Their  fathers  and 
mothers  were  lost  in  the  crowd,  and  if  any  man  had  pres- 
ence of  mind  or  pity  enough  to  help  one,  there  were  hun- 
dreds and  thousands  of  others  who  needed  equal  help. 
Universal  panic  reigned  everywhere,  and  the  multitude  was 
wild  with  fright,  and  unreasoning  and  unmerciful.  And 
over  all  the  din  there  was  the  roar  of  the  pitiless  flames,  as 
they  'ame  on  from  behind,  and  danced  and  leaped,  as  if  in 
mockery  over  the  sorrow  and  fear  of  man. 

Through  all  this  the  soldiers  forced  their  way,  at  a  steady 
pace,  and  Lydia  saw  with  great  relief  that  every  step  took 
them  farther  from  danger.  Julius  kept  her  hand,  and  walked 
by  her  side,  and  the  old  man  came  behind. 

"  I  saw  it  when  it  first  broke  out,"  said  Julius  to  Lydia, 
"  many  hours  ago.  I  saw  that  the  wind  blew  from  the  cir- 
cus to  your  quarter,  and  at  once  ran  to  give  you  warning. 
But  I  could  do  nothing  against  the  crowd.  Then  I  went 
back  and  brought  these  soldiers,  and  tried  to  force  a  way 
through  the  crowd,  but  could  not.  They  were  so  tightly 
packed  that  it  was  impossible.  So  I  determined  to  break 
through  the  houses,  for  I  knew  that  this  was  the  only  way 
to  get  to  you ;  and  besides,  I  knew  that  even  if  I  did  not 
tind  you  in  the  house,  I  could  call  off  a  great  number  of  the 
people  by  this  new  avenue  of  escape,  and  so  perhaps  find 
you.  But,  God  be  thanked !  I  found  you  there  at  your  own 
door." 

Tlie  voice  of  Julius  faltered  as  he  spoke,  and  he  pressed 
Lydia's  hand  tightly,  in  his  deep  emotion.  The  maiden 
cast  down  her  eyes.  Amid  all  the  surrounding  panic  she 
felt  calm,  as  though  his  presence  brought  assured  safety, 
and  when  she  first  saw  him  come  through  the  ruins  of  the 
house  he  stood  like  an  angel  before  her,  and  his  strong  words 
uispired  her  with  courage  that  caused  her  to  rise  above  the 
terror  around. 


236 


The  Burning  of  Rome, 


On  thoy  went  through  the  tumult  at  a  steady  march,  until 
at  last  they  turned  off  to  the  right,  and  after  traversing  sev- 
eral streets  which  were  less  crowded,  though  thronged  with 
the  alarmed  multitude,  they  reached  the  foot  of  the  Esquiline. 
Here  Julius  turned  up  a  broad  avenue,  and  halted  his  soldiers 
in  front  of  Labeo's  gate. 

"  I  have  a  good  friend  here,"  said  he,  "  who  will  be  glad 
to  give  you  shelter  for  a  time,  till  I  can  find  a  new  place  for 
you." 

He  then  went  forward,  followed  by  Lydia  and  her  father, 
and  they  all  entered  the  hall. 

A  few  words  explained  all  to  Labeo,  who  received  the 
father  and  daughter  with  the  warmest  welcome.  Helena 
soon  made  her  appearance,  and  when  the  centurion  recog- 
nized in  her  a  Christian,  he  felt  more  inclined  to  I'eceive  the 
proffered  hospitality. 

All  that  night  the  conflagration  raged,  extending  itself 
more  and  more  widely,  engulfing  whole  blocks  of  houses, 
surrounding  and  hemming  in  the  wretched  inmates  till  no 
escape  was  left.  The  cries  of  men  mingled  with  the  roar  of 
the  falling  houses,  and  the  noise  of  the  devouring  flames, 
and  the  light  of  the  burning  city  startled  the  people  far 
away  in  distant  parts  of  Italy.  Men  hoped  for  morning, 
thinking  that  daylight  would  bring  some  relief,  and  praying 
like  Ajax,  if  they  had  to  die,  to  die  in  the  light. 

Day  came,  but  brought  no  relief.  Horror  was  only  intens- 
ified. One  entire  district  of  the  city  was  either  burned  up 
or  doomed  to  perish  immediately.  Men  looked  aghast  at  the 
towering  flames  which  still  swept  on,  urged  forward  by  the 
intense  heat  of  the  parts  that  had  been  already  burned. 
Crowds  of  people  had  sought  shelter  in  places  which  they 
deemed  secure,  but  they  now  found  the  fire  advancing  upon 
these,  and  they  had  to  fly  once  more.  Despair  prevailed 
everywhere.  Little  children  wandered  about,  weak  and 
almost  dying  from  fatigue  and  grief,  moaning  after  their 
parents  ;  while  in  other  parts  of  the  city  those  same  parents 


The  Burning  of  Rome, 


237 


were  searching  everywhere  for  their  children.  Nothing  was 
done  to  stop  the  flames,  for  no  one  knew  what  to  do.  All 
were  paralyzed. 

The  fire  moved  on.  Block  after  block  of  houses  was  con- 
sumed. The  streets  were  still  filled  with  flying  wretches. 
But  those  who  fled  could  now  fly  with  greater  freedom,  for 
the  population  were  forewarned,  and  they  were  no  longer 
overtaken  by  the  fire  in  their  flight. 

The  keepers  of  the  public  prisons  fled.  The  keepers  of 
the  amphitheatre,  and  of  all  the  public  edifices,  sought  safety 
for  themselves,  forgetting  all  things  in  their  terror. 

Around  the  chief  amphitheatre  the  flames  soon  gathered, 
and  the  fire  dashed  itself  upon  it,  and  soon  a  vast  conflagra- 
tion arose  which  surpassed  in  splendor  the  surrounding  fires. 
All  around,  the  flames  ran,  passing  downward,  taking  in  all 
the  seats  and  working  their  way  to  the  lowest  vaults.  In 
that  great  edifice,  with  its  wood-work,  and  its  many  decora- 
tions, its  various  apparatus,  and  the  thousand  combustible 
things  stored  there,  the  flames  raged  fiercely,  throwing  up  a 
vast  pyramid  of  fire  into  the  air,  which  tossed  itself  into  the 
skies,  and  crowned  all  other  fires,  and  eclipsed  them  by  the 
tremendous  force  of  its  superior  glow. 

And  now  from  out  the  buildings  connected  with  the  amphi- 
theatre, as  the  flames  advanced  there  came  a  sound  that 
gave  greater  horror  to  all  who  heard  it,  for  it  was  something 
more  terrible  than  anything  that  had  yet  been  heard.  It 
was  a  sound  of  agony,  —  the  cry  of  living  creatures,  left 
encaged  there  to  meet  their  fate,  —  the  wild  beasts  of  the 
ampliitheatre.  There  was  something  almost  human  in  that 
sharp,  despairing  wail  of  fear.  The  deep  roar  of  the  lion 
resounded  above  all  other  cries,  but  it  was  n  longer  the 
lordly  roar  of  his  majestic  wrath,  it  was  no  longer  the  voice 
of  the  haughty  king  of  animals.  Terror  had  destroyed  all 
its  menacing  tones,  and  the  approach  of  fire  made  his  stout 
heart  as  craven  as  that  of  the  timid  hare.  The  roar  of  the 
lion  sounded  like  a  shriek,  as  it  rose  up  and  was  borne  on 


wnim 


•^^mf^-fm^mFm^t^mmr 


238 


TAe  Burning  of  Rome, 


the  blast  to  the  ears  of  men,  —  a  shriek  of  despair,  —  a  cry 
to  Heaven  for  pity  on  that  life  which  the  Creator  had  irmed. 
"With  that  lion's  roar  there  blended  the  howl  of  the  tiger, 
and  the  yell  of  the  hyena  ;  but  all  fierceness  was  mitigated 
in  that  hour  of  fright  and  dismay,  and  in  the  uproar  of  those 
shrieks  there  was  something  heart-rending,  which  made  men's 
hearts  quake,  and  caused  them  for  a  moment  to  turn  aside 
from  their  own  griefs,  and  shudder  at  the  agony  of  beasts. 

Here,  where  the  flames  raced  and  chased  one  nnother  over 
the  lofty  arched  side,  and  from  which  man  had  fled,  and  the 
only  life  that  remained  was  heard  and  not  seen,  one  form  of 
life  suddenly  became  visible  to  those  who  found  occasion  to 
watch  this  place,  in  which  men  saw  that  touch  of  nature 
which  makes  all  men  kin  ;  but  here  nature  asserted  her  power 
in  the  heart  of  a  lioness.  How  she  escaped  from  her  cell  no 
one  could  say.  Perhaps  the  heat  had  scorched  the  wood  sc 
that  she  broke  it  away ;  perhaps  she  had  torn  away  the  side 
in  her  fury ;  perhaps  the  side  had  burned  away,  and  she  had 
burst  through  the  flames,  doing  this  not  for  herself  but  for 
that  offspring  of  hers  which  she  carried  in  her  mouth,  hold- 
ing it  aloft,  and  in  her  mighty  maternal  love  willing  to 
devote  herself  to  all  danger  for  the  sake  of  her  young.  She 
seemed  to  come  up  suddenly  from  out  the  midst  of  flame  and 
smoke,  till  she  reached  the  farthest  extremity  of  the  edifice, 
and  there  she  stood,  still  holding  her  cub,  now  regarding  the 
approaching  flames,  and  now  looking  around  everywhere  for 
Bome  further  chance  of  escape.  There  stood  about  thirty 
feet  away  a  kind  of  portico  which  formed  the  front  of  a 
Basilica,  and  this  was  the  only  building  that  was  near.  To 
this  the  lioness  directed  her  gaze,  and  often  turned  to  look  upon 
the  flames,  and  then  returned  again  to  inspect  the  portico. 
Its  side  stood  nearest,  and  the  sloping  roof  was  the  only  place 
that  afibrded  a  foothold.  Between  the  two  places  lay  a  depth 
of  seventy  feet,  and  at  the  bottom  the  hard  stone  pavement. 

Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  flames,  and  the  agony  of  a 
mother's  heart  was  seen  in  that  beast,  as  with  low  deep  moans 


The  Burning  of  Rome. 


239 


thirty 
it  of  a 
ir.  To 
pk  upon 
Ipovtico. 
ly  place 
1  a  depth 

jment. 
|ny  of  a 
moans 


she  saw  the  fiery  death  that  threatened.  Ah'eady  the  flames 
seemed  to  encircle  her,  and  the  smoke-clouds  drove  down, 
hiding  her  at  times  from  view.  At  last,  as  one  cloud,  which 
had  enveloped  her  for  a  longer  period  than  usual  rolled 
away,  the  lioness  seemed  to  hesitate  no  longer.  Starting 
back  to  secure  space  for  a  run,  she  rushed  forward,  and  made 
a  spring  straight  toward  the  portico. 

Perhaps,  if  the  lioness  had  been  alone,  and  fresh  in  her 
strength,  she  might  easily  have  accomplished  the  leap  and 
secured  at  least  temporary  safety.  But  she  was  wearied 
with  former  efforts,  and  the  fire  had  already  scorched  her. 
Besides  this  she  held  her  cub  in  her  mouth,  and  the  addi- 
tional weight  bore  her  down.  As  it  was,  her  fore  paws 
struck  the  edge  of  the  sloping  roof  of  the  portico,  she  clutched 
it  madly  with  her  sharp  claws,  and  made  violent  efforts  to 
drag  herself  up.  She  tried  to  catch  at  some  foothold  w?th 
her  hind  legs,  but  there  was  nothing.  The  tremendous 
strain  of  such  a  position  could  not  long  be  endured.  Grad- 
ually her  efforts  relaxed.  At  last,  as  thougli  she  felt  herself 
falling,  she  made  a  final  effort.  Mustering  all  her  strength, 
she  seemed  to  throw  herself  upward.  In  vain.  She  sank 
back.  Her  limbs  lost  strength.  Her  claws  slipped  from  the 
place  which  they  had  held.  The  next  instant  a  dark  form 
fell,  and  mother  and  offspring  lay,  a  lifeless  mass,  on  the  pave- 
ment. 

All  the  keepers  of  all  the  public  places  had  fled,  and  they 
had  left  behind  all  the  inmates.  These  inmates  were  not 
wild  beasts  alone.  Some  were  human  beings.  The  jailers 
had  fled  from  the  prisons,  and  carried  away  or  thrown  away 
the  keys.  Had  the  crowd  in  the  streets  been  less  frantic, 
they  would  have  done  something  to  free  the  wretches  whose 
shrieks  resounded  within  the  walls  over  which  the  flames 
hung  threateningly.  They  would  have  burst  open  the  doors, 
and  saved  the  pi'isoners  confined  there  from  the  worst  of  fates. 
But  the  people  were  paralyzed  by  fear.  They  had  only  one 
thought,  and  that  was  personal  safety. 


I  : : 


240 


The  Burning  of  Rome. 


The  great  prison  of  Rome  was  situated  in  the  very  front 
of  the  fire,  and  on  the  second  day,  as  it  advanced,  it  gradually 
surrounded  it.  For  some  time  the  solid  stone  walls  resisted 
the  progress  of  the  conflagration,  but  at  last  the  intense  heat 
that  prevailed  all  around  produced  its  effect  here.  The 
outer  dooi's  first  caught  the  blaze,  and  then  the  framework 
of  the  tiled  roof. 

At  first  the  inmates  knew  nothing  of  the  danger  that 
threatened  them,  but  after  a  time  the  oppressive  heat  of  the 
atmosphere  filled  them  with  dread,  and  the  red  light  that 
flashed  through  the  openings  of  the  cells  showed  them  their 
impending  fate.  Loud  calls  arose  for  the  jailers;  but  no 
jailers  were  there  to  respond.  Then  howls,  and  curses,  and 
shrieks,  and  prayers  arose,  in  one  vast  confusion  of  sounds. 
The  prisoners  saw  the  fearful  danger,  and  in  their  madness 
dashcu  themselves  against  the  prison  doors.  In  vain:  the 
light  grew  brighter,  the  heat  more  intense,  and  the  danger 
more  near. 

In  one  large  room  there  were  several  hundred  confined, 
and  here  the  worst  scenes  were  enacted.  The  windows 
were  narrow  openings  only  a  few  inches  wide,  with  iron  bars 
set  in  the  hard  stone.  They  were  also  ten  feet  above  the 
floor.  The  doors  were  of  iron,  and  double,  with  iron  bars  to 
secure  them.  There  was  not  the  slightest  hope  of  escape. 
Here  the  prisoners  first  learned  their  danger,  and  it  went 
from  mouth  to  mouth  till  all  knew  it.  At  first  they  were 
transfixed  with  fear ;  it  was  as  though  each  man  had  become 
rooted  to  the  spot.  They  looked  at  each  other  with  awful 
eyes,  and  then  at  the  narrow  windows  through  which,  even 
if  there  were  no  bars,  no  man  could  pass ;  and  then  at  the 
massive  iron  doors,  which  no  human  strength  could  move 
from  their  places.  They  knew  that  the  fire  was  surrounding 
them ;  they  knew  that  the  jailers  had  fled ;  they  knew  the 
whole  truth.  _    t-  - 

Then  after  the  first  stupor  came  frenzy.  Some  dashed 
themselves  against  the  door,  others  leaped  up  and  tried  to 


The  Burning  of  Rome. 


241 


dashed 
I  tried  to 


catch  at  the  bars  of  the  windows.  In  one  place,  somo, 
mounted  on  the  shoulders  of  otliers,  tried  to  loosen  the  mas- 
give  stones  of  the  wall  through  which  the  windows  were 
pierced.  But  their  puny  efforts  wore  all  in  vain.  The 
Roman  buildings  were  always  of  the  massive  sort.  The 
stones  were  always  enormous  blocks,  and  here  in  this  prison 
they  were  of  the  largest  size.  All  efforts  to  dislodge  these 
were  simply  hopeless.  This  the  prisoners  soon  found  out, 
but  even  then  they  strove  to  move  them,  seeking  for  some 
one  of  smaller  size  which  might  not  resist  their  efforts. 

But  doors  and  windows  were  alike  immovable.  Over- 
head was  a  vaulted  roof  of  solid  stone ;  beneath,  a  stone- 
paved  floor.  Some  of  the  prisoners  tore  up  the  flagstones 
that  formed  the  pavement,  but  only  found  huge  blocks  of 
rough  cut  travertine  beneath. 

Meantime  the  fires  advanced,  and  the  heat  grew  more  in- 
tense, till  at  last  the  desire  was  not  so  much  for  escape,  as 
for  air  and  breath.  Those  who  had  worked  hardest  were 
first  exhausted,  and  fell  panting  on  the  pavement;  others 
sought  the  windows,  but  found  the  air  without  hotter  than 
that  within.  At  last  despair  came,  and  all  stood  glaring  at 
the  red  light  that  flashed  through  the  windows,  and  grimly 
and  savagely  awaited  death. 

In  every  cell,  where  solitary  prisoners  were  confined,  each 
individual  did  what  these  others  had  been  doing,  and  made 
the  same  fierce  efforts  to  escape  by  door  or  window,  with  the 
same  result.  Rome  had  not  built  a  prison  which  might 
be  pulled  down. 

Now  all  the  building  seemed  to  glow  with  the  intense  heat 
that  enclosed  it  from  the  burning  houses,  and  the  roof  burned 
and  fell  in,  communicating  the  fire  to  the  stones  bi  leath,  and 
tlie  iron  bars  grew  red-hot.  From  behind  some  of  these  bars 
there  appeared  hideous  faces,  —  faces  of  agony,  where  the 
features  were  distorted  by  pain,  and  the  hair  had  fallen  off 
at  the  touch  of  fire,  and  voices  still  called,  in  hoarse  tones,  for 
help,  long  after  all  hope  of  help  had  died  out. 
21 


242 


The  Burning  of  Rome, 


Then  came  curses,  —  bitter  and  deep,  on  the  emperor,  on 
the  people,  on  the  state,  and  on  the  gods. 

At  last  the  flames  rolled  on  over  all,  and  the  silent  prison- 
house  showed  only  its  walls  that  seemed  to  glow  red-Iiot 
amid  the  conflagration. 

So  the  second  day  passed  into  night,  and  the  night  was 
worse  than  the  day.  The  fire  had  obtained  complete  mas- 
tery. It  had  extended  itself  in  all  directions,  and  moved 
onward  in  a  wide  path,  as  wide  as  the  city  itself,  so  that  men 
as  they  watched  it  saw  that  all  Rome  was  doomed.  Only 
one  thing  could  save  it,  —  a  change  of  wind,  or  a  rain-storm. 

But  no  rain  came,  and  the  wind  changed  not,  and  through 
all  the  night  the  fires  spread,  over  the  houses,  and  over  the 
palaces  of  nobles,  and  over  the  temples  of  the  gods. 

During  this  time  the  emperor  had  been  at  Antium,  hut 
when  the  third  day  came  he  returned  to  Rome.  By  that 
time  the  fire  had  approached  the  gardens  of  the  ImpcMitil 
Palace,  and  threatened  to  sweep  over  all  the  trees  and 
plants,  and  lay  low  the  palace  itself.  Near  the  palace  were 
the  gardens  of  Ma3cenas,  and  between  these  two  was  a  build- 
ing which  communicated  with  each,  and  this  building  had 
already  fallen  a  prey  to  the  conflagration.  In  the  gardens 
of  jMaicenas  there  was  a  palace,  on  the  top  of  which  was  a 
tower  which  afforded  a  commanding  view.  To  this  tower 
Nero  went,  and  ascending  it  he  looked  around.     ^ 

For  three  days  the  tires  had  raged,  and  already  a  vast 
portion  of  the  city  had  fallen.  Temples,  towers,  monuments, 
the  relics  of  the  past,  the  records  of  old  triumphs,  had  been 
destroyed  along  with  the  houses  of  the  common  people.  Fur 
over  the  cit}'  from  its  remotest  bounds,  up  to  that  build- 
ing which  lay  ^etween  the  Imperial  Palace  and  these  gar- 
dens, the  work  of  destruction  had  extended.  Nero  had 
come  there  after  dark,  either  because  he  could  not  come  be- 
fore, or,  as  is  more  probable,  becau^  he  wished  to  see  the 
fine  scenic  effect.  He  had  what  he  wished  to  his  heart's 
content.      The  flames  shone  brightly  amid  the  gloom,  and 


The  Burning  of  Rome, 


243 


shot  up  fiercely,  and  rolled  on  over  houses  hitherto  un- 
touched, fiiidhig  new  maK.'rial  at  every  stage  of  progress,  and 
feeding  itself  on  this.  The  lofty  liouses,  which  in  Rome 
arose  to  a  height  unknown  in  other  cities,  made  a  fire  in  this 
city  a  grander  spectacle  than  it  could  be  elsewhere.  Added 
to  this  there  was  the  outline  of  the  city  itself,  which  de- 
gcended  into  valleys  and  rose  up  into  hills.  From  where 
Nero  stood  he  could  see  it  all  to  the  best  advantage.  It 
seemed  like  a  sea  of  fire,  where  billows  of  fianie  mingled 
witii  smoke  rolled  incessantly  onward,  and  dashed  against 
those  loftier  eminences  that  rose  like  islands  in  the  midst. 
Yet  those  eminences  themselves  did  not  escape,  for  the  fires 
clambered  upward,  and  passing  from  house  to  house,  from 
palace  to  palace,  and  from  temple  to  temjjje,  covered  all,  till 
all  glowed  with  etjual  intensity.  The  sky  was  all  ablaze,  and 
as  the  wind  still  blew  with  undiminished  violence,  it  bore 
onward  to  the  north  a  vast  stream  of  glowing  embers,  some 
of  which  were  so  large  that  they  seemed  like  charred  tim- 
bers,—  all  these  swept  past  incessantly,  and  showers  of 
sparks  kept  falling,  and  the  great  tide  of  cinders  and  ashes 
floated  on  for  many  and  many  a  mile,  till  the  streets  of 
Etiurian  villages  received  the  falling  dust  of  Rome. 

Nero  stood  enrapt  in  deep  admiration.  A  few  friends  were 
with  him,  chief  of  whom  were  Tigellitms  and  Petronius. 

"  It  was  worth  coming  miles  to  se     '  he  exclaimed. 

"  It  is  a  sight  that  can  never  be  seen  again,  —  a  sight  that 
a  man  may  see,  and  then  die." 

With  such  exclamations  as  these  he  broke  the  silence 
from  time  to  time,  and  stood  motionless  for  many  hours.  At 
last  he  burst  into  tears. 

"  What  grandeur !  "  he  cried.  "  I  am  overcome.  I  feel 
thrills  of  the  true  sublime.  You  are  sur})rised  at  my  tears, 
my  friends.  I  weep  because  I  think  that  I  can  never  again 
see  anything  equal  to  this." 

His  friends  hastened  to  comfort  him.  Tigellinus  assured 
him  that  he  could  have  a  fire  in  every  city  in  the  world,  if 
he  wished. 


244 


The  Burning  of  Rome. 


"  Ah,"  said  Nero,  piteously,  "  you  forget  that  there  is  only 
one  Home." 

"  Well,  Homo  can  bo  burnt  again." 

"It  woultl  hardly  do  to  have  it  too  often,"  said  Nero,  with 
a  sudden  gleam  of  good  sense. 

"  You  are  the  master  of  Rome,  and  of  the  world,"  said 
Tigellinus,  "you  have  only  to  speak  and  it  is  done." 

"  True,"  said  Nero,  —  and  he  fell  into  a  lit  of  musing.  At 
last  he  turned  away. 

"  Come."  said  he,  "  let  us  go  to  my  gardens,  to  the  thcafro, 
and  there  I  will  sing  for  you  my  ode  on  the  burning  of 
Troy.     You  will  marvel  to  see  how  appropriate  it  is  to  this." 

They  descended,  and  mounting  their  horses,  rode  away. 
The  Vatican  gardens  lay  on  the  other  side  of  the  Tiber,  and 
the  way  there  led  through  several  streets  that  belonged  to 
the  bui'iit  district.  Nero  was  in  the  highest  spirits.  lie 
looked  intently  at  the  smoking  ruins,  and  laughingly  won- 
dered how  many  inliabitants  remained  there.  "  That  is  a 
foolish  saying,"  said  he,  "  of  that  poet  who  says,  — 

" '  When  I  am  dead,  let  fire  devour  the  world.' 

For  my  part,  I  would  change  the  line,  and  make  it 
"  '  While  I'm  alive,  let  fire  devour  the  world.' 

Isn't  my  improvement  a  good  one  ?  " 

"The  poet  would  certainly  have  written  it  as  you  sug- 
gest," said  Tigellinus,  "  if  he  had  seen  this  spectacle." 

Arriving  at  the  gardens,  Nero  went  to  the  theatre,  put  on 
his  scenic  dress,  went  on  the  stage,  tuned  his  harp,  and  sang 
the  ode  which  he  had  written.  His  hearers  gave  him  the 
ai)plause  which  true  courtiers  are  always  ready  to  bestow ; 
now  listening  apparently  in  rapt  attention,  now  assuming  an 
appearance  of  deep  awe,  and  again,  at  the  end  of  a  strophe, 
bursting  forth  into  irrepressible  applause. 

The  walls  of  the  theatre  were  low,  and  from  the  stage, 
which  looked  toward  the  direction  of  the  city,  the  fire  could 


The  Burning  of  Rome. 


245 


easily  be  seen  tlirouj^h  the  roofless  top.  Nero  afTected  the 
manner  of  one  who  was  inspired,  and  uhnost  fren/ied  hy 
tlie  scene  before  him.  Carried  away  by  his  own  self-compla- 
cency, and  the  aj)plause  of  his  hearers,  he  sang  the  ode  over 
and  over  aj^ain,  each  time  growing  more  extravagant  in  his 
gesticulations,  and  only  ceased  when  fatigue  compelled  him. 
He  would  have  continued  till  morning,  had  not  Tigellinus 
artl'idly  suggested  that  his  voice  might  be  injured  by  singing 
in  the  night  air,  and  urged  him  to  reserve  his  powers,  so  as 
to  sing  to  them  again  on  some  other  day. 

So,  while  Rome  was  burning,  the  master  and  ruler  of 
Rome  hK)ked  upon  its  agony,  seeing  in  it  oidy  a  thing  for 
the  gratification  of  taste,  not  at  all  a  calamity  that  needed 
help  and  j)ity. 

liut  the  calamity  was  so  terrible  that  at  last  the  cries  of  a 
sutlcring  people  reached  ev(;n  his  ears,  and  forced  attention. 

For  already  vast  multitudes  gathered  in  the  more  open 
places,  or  in  the  distant  streets,  —  homeless  and  hopeless,  — 
a  flaunt,  ragged,  desperate  crowd,  —  fierce,  vindictive,  — look- 
ing around  for  some  one  on  whom  to  lay  the  blame  of  all  this, 
and  inflict  vengeance.  In  their  sudden  flight  they  had  taken 
little  or  nothing  with  them.  All  ordinary  occui>ations  were 
suspended,  so  that  they  could  earn  nothing,  and  starvation 
stared  them  in  the  face.  Urged  on  by  hung(M',  they  had  al- 
ready broken  open  the  public  storehouses  and  htdped  them- 
selves to  whatever  they  could  find.  From  this  beginning 
they  went  on  to  worse  excesses,  and  vast  crowds  roamed  the 
streets,  driving  out  families  from  their  houses,  and  seizing  all 
the  provisions  that  were  within.  Universal  anarchy  reigned, 
and  riot  and  plunder  and  even  murder  abounded.  In  some 
places  bands  of  incendiaries  went  about,  setting  fire  to 
houses,  and  driving  off  all  who  tried  to  prevent  them,  d<> 
claring  that  they  acted  by  Nero's  ordei's,  and  threatening 
death  to  all  who  interfered. 

Gradually  the  rumor  prevailed  that  Nero  had  done  it  all. 
His  infamy  was  known  to  the  people,  and  nothing  was 
21  # 


i;5 


•  i,"M^^ii^»iii,iij^i^niin  tJtmmiw^i^m^KlfW^ 


246 


TAe  Burning  of  Ro7ne. 


%  '■ 


deemed  too  vile  for  him.  In  a  short  time  there  was  hardlj 
a  man  in  Rome  who  did  not  believe  that  the  lire  was  the  act 
of"  tlie  emperor. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  this  desperate  people  would  have 
taken  vengeance  on  the  one  whom  they  believed  to  be  the 
author  of  their  calamities,  if  he  had  not  mitigated  their  wratii 
by  some  well-timed  acts.  He  had  a  hint  of  what  was  said 
about  him.  Among  all  his  desires,  one  of  his  strongest  was 
a  longing  for  popularity.  He  wished  the  people  to  admire 
him.  He  cared  not  so  much  for  the  upper  classes,  but  was 
satisfied  if  they  only  feared  him.  But  to  the  people  and  to 
the  soldiers  he  wished  to  be  popular. 

In  the  midst  of  the  general  distress,  therefore,  he  came 
forward  and  made  active  efforts  to  relieve  it.  He  throw 
open  to  the  people  the  Field  of  Mars,  the  ground  and  build- 
ings of  Agrippa,  and  even  his  own  imperial  gardens.  The 
vast  extent  of  these  gave  accommodation  and  shelter  to  great 
numbers.  In  addition  to  this,  he  sent  to  Ostia  for  household 
utensils,  and  tools  of  all  kinds.  The  price  of  grain  was  re- 
duced to  a  very  small  sum,  and  every  effort  was  made  to 
relieve,  in  the  quickest  possible  way,  the  general  misfor- 
tune. 

But  while  these  efforts  were  being  made,  the  fire  still 
went  on.  Night  came  again,  —  the  fourth  of  these  fear- 
ful nights,  —  and  the  line  of  devastation  extended  itself, 
and  spread  onward,  as  before,  and  rolled  steadily  on  in  one 
vivid  mass. 

Two-thirds  of  the  city  had  now  perished,  and  men  looked 
for  the  absolute  and  utter  destruction  of  all  the  rest.  Tliere 
was  tlie  same  feeling  of  helplessness  and  despair,  yet  tluTC 
was  this  difference,  that  people  had  become  accustomed 
to  their  fate,  and  already  in  those  parts  wiiich  had  been 
burned  on  the  first  day  there  were  many  who  busied  them- 
selves in  excavating  the  ruins  of  their  houses,  so  as  to  pre- 
pare for  the  erection  of  new  ones. 

At  last  men  went  so  far  as  to  think  that  something  might 


The  Burning  of  Rome. 


247 


even  yet  be  done  to  save  wliat  remained.  As  long  as  houses 
stood,  houses  must  burn ;  but  if  the  lire  should  come  to 
a  place  where  it  could  encounter  no  houses,  there  it  would 
have  to  stop.  The  remedy  then  against  the  fire  that  ap- 
peared before  the  minds  of  men,  was  to  break  down  the 
houses  that  lay  in  its  way,  and  thus  to  cut  off  the  supply 
that  fed  it. 

Gradually  this  idea  passed  from  mind  to  mind,  originating 
no  one  knew  how,  till  the  public  officers  saw  in  it  a  chance 
to  do  something.  On  the  fifth  day^  while  the  fire  was  at  its 
height,  they  began  to  fight  against  it.  Large  bodies  of  the 
people  were  assembled,  and  set  to  work  at  the  task  of  demo- 
lition. All  the  soldiers  in  the  city  wex'e  summoned,  and  did 
the  chief  part  of  the  work.  The  battering-ram  crashed 
against  the  side  of  many  a  lofty  mansion,  and  the  soldiers, 
from  their  campaign  experience,  showed  themselves  as  able 
to  work  against  the  houses  of  Rome  as  against  the  walls  of 
beleaguered  cities.  A  line  was  traced,  for  the  purpose  of 
arresting  the  fiames,  and  on  this  line  everything  in  the  shape 
of  a  building  was  assailed. 

The  immerse  multitude  that  worked  at  this  soon  made 
their  power  felt.  Along  the  whole  line  thus  marked  out  for 
destruction  bodies  of  men  worked  with  the  battering-ram  and 
the  axe  .and  the  lever,  levelling  all  things,  houses  and  sacred 
fanes,  and  noble  halls,  in  one  common  ruin.  So  vigorous 
was  the  work  that  in  about  twenty-four  hours  it  was  all  ae- 
ooniplished.  They  began  at  noon  on  the  fifth  day,  and 
worked  all  night,  each  party  being  relieved  by  others,  until 
noon  on  the  sixth  day. 

On  that  sixth  day  the  flames  reached  the  open  space,  and 
could  go  no  farther.  To  the  excited  spectators  it  seemed  as 
though  this  fire  were  a  living  thing,  as  it  raged  along  the 
line  of  defence  that  man  had  formed  against  it,  for  it  threw 
out  its  forked  arms  of  flame,  and  attached  itself  to  beams 
and  ruined  wood-work,  and  sought  to  creep  among  the  debris 
of  the  fallen  houses.     But  the  barrier  was  effectual,  and  the 


248 


The  Btirnmg  of  Rome. 


Romans   saw   at   last   that   some   portion   of  the   city  \v» 
saved. 

But  safety  was  not  yet  secure.  On  the  other  side  of  that 
barrier  the  fire  glowed,  no  longer  casting  its  flames  on  high, 
but  fierce,  and  sullen,  and  intense  in  its  heat,  a  wratliful 
enemy,  still  menacing,  and  still  formidable.  Multitudes  of 
men  stood  on  guard,  and  as  night  came  on  the  guard  was 
more  vigilantly  kept,  and  lines  of  men  were  formed,  who 
might  pass  water  from  the  nearest  fountains,  to  extinguish 
any  sudden  blaze. 

The  flames  had  been  arrested  at  the  foot  of  the  Esquiline. 
On  the  other  side  stood  Labeo's  house,  on  the  slope  over- 
looking the  fire.  From  that  house  the  inmates  had  watclied 
the  conflagration,  through  all  the  days  and  nights  of  its  prog- 
ress. Labeo  had  not  been  idle.  He  had  assisted  the  un- 
fortunate, and  found  shelter  and  food  for  them.  He  had 
also  directed  bands  of  workmen  during  the  last  day  and 
night.  Ar  >ng  those  who  watched  on  this  night  was  Gal- 
dus,  whom  ijabeo  had  sent  there  for  that  purpose ;  and  all 
the  other  servants  of  the  house  were  there  also. 

Cineas  had  exerted  himself  as  diligently  as  any  one,  in 
the  general  calamity.  He  had  gone  about  seeking  after  the 
parents  of  the  wandering  children,  with  whom  the  streets 
were  filled,  and  distributing  provisions  to  the  destitute.  He 
had  applied  to  Nero  for  permission  to  execute  his  commands, 
and  Nero  had  laughingly  consented,  saying  that  for  a  phi- 
losopher he  could  see  nothing  more  appropriate,  since  it  wa.'* 
a  practical  effort  to  attain  to  the  summum  honum.  He  had 
accordingly  gone  to  Ostia,  and  to  other  neighboring  cities, 
and  his  exertions  contributed  not  a  little  to  the  general  re- 
lief.    On  this  night  he  was  away  on  his  usual  business. 

Labeo  went  to  bed,  wearied  and  worn  out  with  excessive 
toil.  All  seemed  safe,  and  he  expected  sound  slumbers. 
Helena,  too,  who  had  shared  the  general  excitement,  to  a 
painful  degree,  went  to  sleep  without  fear.  For  the  first 
time  in  many  days  and  nights  they  prepared  for  a  night's 


The  Burning  of  Rome. 


249 


rest,  and  retired,  not  thinking  wlmt  would  be  their  awaken- 


ing. 


All  the  servants  had  been  sent  away,  except  one  or  two, 
who  remained  in  the  house.  These  were  as  weary  as  any 
others.  Marcus  usually  slept  at  a  distance  from  his  parents, 
and  Galdus  always  lay  in  an  adjoining  room.  Two  female 
servants  slept  in  the  same  room  with  Marcus. 

Thus  Labeo  and  all  his  household  gave  themselves  up  to 
deep  sleep,  —  a  sleep  that  fatigue  had  made  most  profound, 
and  a  feeling  of  safety  made  undisturbed. 

But  wliile  they  slept  the  enemj'^  had  crept  beyond  the  bar- 
rier,—  how,  no  one  knew;  where,  no  one  could  tell. 

But  it  came,  —  suddenly,  fiercely,  terribly. 

In  a  short  time  the  house  of  Labeo  was  all  ablaze,  and 
flamed  up  brightly,  creating  a  new  panic  in  the  minds  of 
those  who  had  recovered,  in  some  sort,  from  their  consterna- 
tion. The  wide  porticoes,  the  lofty  balconies,  and  the  long 
galleries,  afforded  a  free  passage  to  the  devouring  ilames, 
which  now  rioted  in  the  beginning  of  a  new  destruction. 

At  midnight  Labeo  was  aroused  by  a  shriek  from  his 
wife.  He  started  up.  Flames  were  all  around.  His  first 
thought  was  of  his  boy.  He  rushed  out  of  the  room  toward 
the  place  where  Marcus  slept,  but  the  flames  stood  before 
him,  and  drove  him  back.  The  shrieks  of  Helena  called 
his  attention  to  her.     She  was  paralyzed  by  fear. 

Labeo  seized  her  in  his  arms,  and  rushed  down  the  hall 
in  another  direction,  while  the  flames  burst  through  th(^ 
doors  on  either  side,  and  at  last  emerged  into  the  open  air. 

Helena  thought  only  of  Marcus.     SIk;  called  his  name  in 
piercing  tones.     Labeo  put  her  down  ;  but  she  rushed  wildly 
back  into  the  house,  and  stood,  repelled  by  the  flames,  but 
still  shrieking  for  her  son. 
Labeo's  frenzy  was  equal  to  hers. 

He  looked  around,  to  see  if  by  chance  his  son  had  es- 
caped. There  was  no  one  to  be  seen.  He  looked  toward 
the  window  of  the  room  where  his  son  was.     The  flamea 


pi^iii^iBPiv  ^fnf\^. 


250 


TAe  Bm'iihig  of  Rome. 


were  all  around  it,  —  another  brief  space,  and  all  would  be 
over. 

Yet  what  could  he  do?  The  house  arose  before  him,  sur- 
rounded with  lofty  pillared  porticos.  There  was  no  way 
by  which  he  could  get  to  that  room  of  his  son.  He  caught 
at  the  pillar  and  tried  to  climb,  but  could  do  nothing.  In 
his  despair  he  lifted  up  his  head  and  cursed  the  gods. 

Helena  came  rushing  out,  driven  back  by  the  flames,  and 
seeing  her  husband's  despair  fell  down  senseless  on  the 
ground. 

But  now  appeared  a  sight  that  drove  Labeo  to  the  verge 
of  madness. 

Suddenly,  amid  the  flames  that  lifted  up  their  billowy 
heads  on  the  roof,  in  a  place  which  was  threatened,  but  not 
yet  touched,  —  gliding  along  like  a  ghost,  surrounded  by  fire 
which  advanced  on  both  sides,  —  there  came  a  fair,  slender 
form,  —  a  boy,  —  who  advanced  toward  the  very  edge  of 
the  roof. 

It  was  Marcus. 

He  stood  firmly,  and  looked  down.  But  the  depth  was 
too  great.  To  descend  was  impossible ;  to  leap  down  was 
death. 

Then  he  turned  around  and  looked  at  the  flames. 

Labeo  groaned  in  his  agony.  Again  and  again  he  tried 
to  grasp  the  tall  pillar  in  his  arms,  and  climb  up ;  but  he 
could  do  nothing. 

.  Marcus  stood  and  looked  all  around  him  at  the  flames. 
His  face  had  a  calm  and  fearless  expression.  He  trembled 
not,  but  folded  his  arms  and  gazed  steadily,  and  without 
flinching,  on  the  face  of  death. 

A  wild  wail  arose  from  the  stricken  heart  of  that  despair- 
ing father. 

"  O  my  boy  !  " 

The  agony  of  love  and  despair  that  was  uttered  in  this 
cry  roused  Marcus.  He  looked  down.  He  saw  his  father. 
With  a  sad  smile  he  waved  his  little  arm. 


The  Burning  of  Rome. 


251 


"  Farewell,  father,  T  am  cjoing  to  my  Saviour  !  " 

A  pang  of  sharper  grief  shot  through  Labeo.  Was  this 
the  timid  child  who  had  sliuddered  in  the  ampliitheatre  ? 
The  father  now  understood  him,  and  knew  the  meaning  of 
that  cahn  glance. 

But  all  this  was  unendurable. 

Labeo  shrieked  back  words  of  love  and  despair.  Ho 
called  on  his  boy  to  throw  himself  down  in  his  arms. 

Marcus  looked  down,  and  then  again  with  the  same  sad 
smile  shook  his  head. 

"  Farewell,  father.     Weep  not.     We  will  meet  again." 

And  there  was  a  strange  confidence  in  his  tone  that 
pierced  Labeo  with  a  new  sorrow. 

He  rushed  forward ;  he  struck  madly  at  the  stone  pil- 
lars ;  he  dashed  his  head  against  them. 

But  now  there  came  the  sound  of  footsteps,  and  a  man 
darted  past,  swift  as  the  wind,  to  where  the  portico  ter- 
minated. Here  at  one  end  the  projecting  cornice  ceased, 
and  there  was  nothing  overhanging.  The  man  knew  the 
place,  for  he  stopped  not  to  look. 

It  was  Galdus. 

Flinging  his  arms  around  the  pillar,  he  clambered  up  rap- 
idly to  a  great  height,  and  then,  grasping  the  balustrade  of 
the  balcony,  he  drew  himself  up  over  the  place  which  was 
free  from  the  cornice.  There  was  yet  another  portico,  a 
second  story,  and  up  this  the  Briton  clambered  as  quickly 
and  as  rapidly  as  before. 

Labeo,  who  had  started  at  the  sound  of  footsteps,  had 
scarcely  recovered  his  senses  before  he  saw  Galdus  on  the 
roof  of  the  topmost  portico,  and  close  to  Marcus. 

His  heart  beat  with  fearful  throbs.  Safety  for  his  boy 
seemed  near,  but  yet  what  danger  lay  before  him. 

How  could  this  Briton  get  down  again  ? 

Already  the  flames  were  close  upon  Marcus.  He  stood 
on  the  roof,  which  rose  about  ten  feet  above  the  top  of  the 
upper  portico.     Galdus  called  to  him  to  leap  down.     The 


m 


Ir'     i 


III 


252 


The  Darning  of  Rome. 


•is  \% 


s. 


boy  obeyed  at  once,  and  was  caught  in  the  arras  of  the 
Briton. 

But  the  flames  were  all  around.  Galdus  had  run  throu^ih 
them  to  get  to  the  boy.  He  would  have  to  run  through 
them  again  to  get  back. 

But  he  had  made  up  his  plan  ;  and  part  of  his  plan  was 
that  the  flames  should  not  harm  so  much  as  a  hair  of  that 
boy's  head. 

Standing  there,  he  tore  off  his  tunic,  and  hastily  wrapped 
it  around  the  boy  so  that  it  covered  all  his  head.  He  then 
took  a  leathern  girdle,  which  he  usually  wore  about  his  waist, 
and  fastened  Marcus  to  his  back.  Tlien  making  him  twine 
his  arms  about  his  neck,  and  bidding  him  hold  on  tightly,  he 
prepared  to  return. 

The  flames  had  already  overspread  the  place  where  he 
had  just  passed,  though  but  a  few  moments  had  elapsed. 
But  Galdus  did  not  hesitate  an  instant. 

He  bounded  into  the  middle  of  the  flames.  Scorched  and 
bui'nt,  he  emerged  at  that  angle  of  the  portico  up  which  he 
had  lately  clambered.  In  another  instant  he  had  thrown 
himself  over,  and,  chnging  with  feet  and  hands,  began  the 
descent. 

Another  man's  limbs  would  have  been  unequal  to  the 
effort ;  but  Galdus  in  his  forest  life  had  been  trained  to 
climbing  up  trees,  up  precipices,  and  over  giddy  summits  of 
ocean  cliffs.  His  nerves  were  like  iron,  and  his  muscles 
firm.  Nerve  and  muscle  were  needed  to  the  utmost  of  their 
power,  and  they  failed  not  in  the  trial. 

Lower  and  lower,  and  nearer  and  nearer  came  Galdus, 
bringing  the  boy  to  that  aching  heart  below.  At  last  he 
descended  the  column  of  the  lower  portico ;  he  touched  tlie 
ground ;  he  stood  with  his  precious  burden  before  Labeo. 

Labeo  spoke  not  a  word.  With  trembling  hands  he  seized 
the  boy,  and  sat  down,  and  pressed  him  to  his  heart.  Then 
there  came  a  mighty  revulsion  of  feeling ;  and  bowing  his 
head,  the  stern  Roman  wept  over  his  child,  as  though  he 
himself  were  a  child. 


The  Barnhig  of  Rome. 


253 


"Father,"  ■"tiM  Marcus;  "I  would  liave  died  like  a  Ro- 
man; I  was  not  afraid." 

Labeo  prosi-sed  the  boy  closer  to  his  heart. 

But  at  this  moment  another  thing  aroused  him. 

Galdus  had  stood  without  moving,  breathing  hearily,  and 
gasping  for  breath.  The  triumith  that  was  on  his  face  could 
not  altogether  hide  the  agony  that  he  suffered.  Suddenly 
he  gave  a  deep  groan,  and  fell  to  the  ground. 

Marcus  screamed,  and  tearing  himself  from  his  father's 
arms  rushed  to  his  preserver.  Labeo  followed,  and  bending 
over  the  prostrate  form,  he  was  horrified  to  see  what 
appeared  there. 

The  long  hair  and  heavy  beard  of  Galdus,  which  usually 
gave  him  such  a  lordly  barbaric  air,  had  been  scorched  off 
by  the  flames.  His  naked  body,  which  he  had  exposed  for 
tlie  sake  of  Marcus,  was  burnt  terribly ;  his  arms  and  breast, 
which  had  endured  the  worst,  were  fiery  red ;  and  his  hands 
were  blackened  and  the  fingers  bleeding. 

Marcus  flung  himself  on  the  inanima.o  form,  and  wept 
bitterly. 

"  Help,  father.  Haste,  or  he  will  die.  Oh  !  he  is  dying 
for  my  sake  ;  my  noble,  dear  Galdus  !     Have  I  killed  you  ?  " 

Labeo  looked  around  for  help.  At  this  moment  a  crowd 
hurried  into  the  gates.  Isaac  was  at  their  head.  The  aged 
Eubulus  followed. 

Labeo  said  hurriedly,  "  Let  some  of  tUe  men  take  him 
up  and  follow  me." 

He  then  hastened  to  where  Helena  yet  lay,  and,  carrying 
hor  to  a  fountain,  dashed  water  in  her  face.  It  was  long 
betbi'o  she  revived.  At  last  she  -came  to  herself,  and  look- 
ing up  saw  her  husband  and  boy. 

Cla>ping  her  arms  around  the  child,  whom  she  had  given 
lip  for  lost,  she  closed  her  eyes  and  breathe-^  'ler  thanks  to 
ll<.jiven. 

"  How  have  you  saved  him  ?  "  she     'ic  '     agerly. 

"Not  now.  I  will  tell  all  abou  it  aiturvvards,"  said  La- 
33 


254 


The  Burning  of  Rome. 


beo.  "  Now  we  must  go  away.  Our  house  is  gone.  We 
must  go  to  the  viUa." 

A  htter  was  made  for  Galdus,  and  they  carried  him  ten- 
derly along.  Labeo  carried  his  boy,  and  Helena  walked  by 
his  side.  Eubulus  and  Lydia  accoini)anied  them,  for  Labeo 
liad  urged  them,  and  had  promised  them  a  home  in  his  villa. 
They  had  .slept  in  the  farthest  wing  of  the  building,  and 
were  aroused  by  the  glai'e  of  the  flames  ;  but  as  the  rooms 
were  on  \hQ  lowest  floor,  and  quite  distant  from  the  flames, 
they  escaped  without  difficulty. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  Esquiline,  Labeo  stopped  at  the 
house  of  a  frici^d  of  his  whom  he  had  been  intimate  with  in 
Britain,  Agricola,  who  hurried  out  and  eagerly  received  his 
friend.  His  house  and  grounds  were  filled  with  poor  fugi- 
tives, whom  he  was  feeding  and  sheltering.  When  he  heard 
of  Galdus,  what  he  had  done,  and  how  he  had  done  it,  he 
gave  orders  for  his  careful  treatment,  and  Isaac  went  off  to 
attend  him. 

After  a  time  Isaac  returned,  and  Labeo  walked  out  on  the 
portico  with  him. 

«  How  is  Galdus  ?  " 

"  Tei'ribly  scorched,  but  not  deeply  burned.  He  will  suf- 
fer greatly  for  a  few  hours,  but  in  two  or  three  weeks  he 
will  be  able  to  go  about  again." 

"  Take  care  of  him,"  said  Labeo.  "  Take  the  same  care 
of  him  that  you  would  of  me.  Without  him  what  would  I  be 
now?     He  has  saved  all  our  Hves  in  saving  Marcus." 

"  He  shall  have  all  the  care  that  I  can  give,"  said  Isaac, 
gravely. 

"  I  cannot  understand  it,"  said  Labeo.  "  Why  should  my 
house  catch  fire  by  itself?  And  how  did  it  blaze  up  so 
soon  ?  " 

"  It  did  not  catch  fire,"  said  Isaac,  with  a  deep  meaning. 

"  How  then  ?     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  was  set  on  fire." 

«  Set  on  fire !  "  \ 


The  Burning  of  Rome, 


255 


"We 


li^aac, 


"Yes." 

"  Who  would  dare  to  do  it  ?  Rome  is  full  of  marauders, 
I  know,  and  my  house  was  not  guarded ;  but  still  I  cannot 
conceive  liow  any  one  would  dare  to  do  such  a  deed." 

"  There  is  one  who  would  dare  it." 

«Who.>" 

"  A  bitter  enemy  of  yours." 

"  What  bitter  enemy  have  I  ?  "  asked  Labeo,  in  surprise. 

"  One  who  has  sworn  deep  vengeance  against  you." 

"  His  name,"  asked  Labeo. 

«  Hegio." 

"  Hegio ! "  cried  Labeo,  in  amazement.  "  Would  that  ac- 
cursed villain  dare  to  think  even  of  such  a  thing  ?  " 

"Tiiat  accursed  villain,"  said  Isaac,  "  hates  you  so  bitterly 
that  he  would  dare  anything  for  vengeance." 

Labeo  said  nothing,  but  stood  lost  in  astonishment  at  this 
intelligence.     At  last  he  asked, — 

"  But  how  do  you  know  ?  " 

"I  did  not  see  him  set  the  house  on  fire,"  said  Isaac ;  "but 
once  or  twice  during  the  last  two  days  I  saw  him  prowling 
around,  evidently  trying  to  see  what  was  going  on,  and  bent 
on  mischief.  I  would  have  watched  him,  and  prevented 
him,  but  I  was  ordered  away,  to  guard  the  fire,  with  the  rest 
of  the  household." 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  this  before  ?  " 

"  Because  I  thought  you  would  hiugh  at  my  suspicions." 

"  You  were  right,  —  I  would  have  done  so.  Even  now  I 
am  slow  to  believe  them  well  founded." 

"  He  is  the  only  man  living  who  would  have  any  motive." 

"  True,"  said  Labeo,  after  a  moment's  thought. 

"  Beside  this,  I  know  that  for  very  many  months,  ever 
since  you  dismissed  him,  he  has  been  intent  on  vengeance."' 

"  How  do  you  know  this?" 

"  My  people,"  said  Isaac,  "  know  many  things  that  are 
going  on  in  the  world.  They  mingle  with  various  classes, 
and  in  their  association  with  one  another  many  things  are 


i 


2^6 


The  Burning  of  Rome. 


spoken  of.  In  makin;^  iiKiuirics  among  them  about  Ile^'io, 
I  have  found  out  many  things  :  that  lie  has  accused  you  of 
injustice  and  ill-treatment  of  himself;  that  he  has  openly 
vowed  vengeance  ;  and  that  during  the  last  few  months  he 
has  boasted  that  he  had  a  new  patron  who  would  help  liini 
to  his  vengeance. 

"  A  new  patron ! " 

«  Yes." 

"Who?" 

"  Tigeliinus." 

"  Tigeliinus  !  That  is  v/hat  Cineas  spoke  of,"  said  Labco, 
musingly.  "  I  thought  nothing  of  it,  but  this  appears  dan- 
gerous now.  Do  you  think,  Isaac,  that  TigeUinus  sent  hiiu 
to  set  fire  to  my  house  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Isaac ;  "  on  the  contrary  I  think  that  Hegio  did 
this  of  his  own  accord." 

"  But  how  can  it  be  proved  against  him  ?  Who  saw  him 
do  it  ?  " 

«  No  one." 

"  It  can't  be.  proved  then." 

«  No." 

"  It  is  only  a  suspicion." 

"  That  is  all." 

"  Possibly  the  suspicion  may  be  unfounded,"  said  Labeo ; 
"  but  I  believe  you  are  right,  and  I  thank  you,  Isaac,  ibr 
your  fidelity.  Keep  on  watching,  and  let  me  know,  from 
time  to  time,  what  you  hear." 

Labeo  was  more  troubled  by  this  intelligence  than  he 
cared  to  acknowledge ;  but  soon  other  things  occu[)ied  his 
thoughts,  chief  among  which  was  his  removal  to  the  villa. 
Cineas  joined  them  in  a  day  or  two,  and  prepared  to  accom- 
pany them. 

The  last  fire  had  not  been  so  wide  extended  as  was  feared. 
The  Esquiline  and  the  neighboring  districts  were  thinly  set- 
tled, the  houses  being  separated  by  gardens,  so  that  after 
raging  for  a  day  or  so  it  died  out.     But  many  houses  were 


The  Biirnitig  of  Rome. 


25y 


■an'd. 
ly  sct- 
t  al'U'r 

wore 


nevertheless  consumed,  nnd  Labeo  lost  all  that  was  in  liia 
own  niunsion. 

Sulpicia  received  thorn  at  tlie  villa  with  eager  welcome, 
and  all  were  glad  to  get  away  from  the  painful  scenes  of  the 
city.  Cineas  went  back  in  a  day  or  two,  and  resumed  his 
occupation. 

Piubulus  and  Lydia  were  made  welcome  there,  and  Helena, 
by  her  Ciiristian  8ymj)athy,  made  them  feel  content  to  stay 
there  for  a  time.  There,  too,  Julius  became  a  frequcmt 
visitor,  and  Lydia  seemed  to  live  in  a  new  world.  The  villa 
of  Labeo  seemed  splendid  beyond  description,  to  her  eyes, 
and  the  presence  of  Julius  threw  a  charm  over  all. 

IMeanwhile  Galdus  had  slowly  recovered,  under  the  watch- 
ful care  of  Isaac.  His  most  constant  attendant  was  Marcus, 
as  Ibnd  and  as  faithful  as  ever;  and  Galdus  listened  with 
greedy  ears  to  the  loving  words  of  the  boy,  to  whom  his  heart 
clung  with  such  fondness.  The  boy  thought  most  of  all 
about  the  devotion  of  Galdus,  and  his  sufferings  for  his  sake, 
and  next  to  this  he  referred,  with  not  unnatural  pride,  to  his 
own  behavior. 

"  My  father  thought  I  was  a  coward,  because  I  shuddered 
80  to  see  men  killed,"  said  he,  still  remembering,  in  his  sen- 
sitiveness, the  scenes  of  the  amphitheatre ;  "  but  I  am  not  a 
coward,  —  am  I  Galdus  ?  Did  I  fear  death  when  the  fire 
came  ?  " 

And  Galdus  assured  him  over  and  over  again  that  he  was 
the  boldest  of  boys,  and  the  most  heroic,  and  was  brave 
enough  to  be  a  Briton, —  that  being  the  highest  conception 
of  bravery  which  Galdus  had. 

In  several  weeks'  time  the  Briton  had  recovered,  as  Isaac 
had  prophesied. 

One  day  Labeo  summoned  him. 

"  Galdus,"  said  he,  "  I  owe  you  more  than  I  can  ever  re- 
pay.   I  will  make  a  beginning  toward  repayment  now.    First 
of  all,  —  you  are  free." 
22* 


258 


The  Bnrnhtp^  of  Rome. 


Then,  as  GaldiH  spoke  his  ncknowledpfmenta,  but  with 
rather  less  joy  than  Laheo  expected,  he  said, — 

"In  addition  to  this,  —  I  will  send  you  to  your  own 
country." 

Galdus  l()()k(!d  on  the  ground. 

"  When  do  you  want  to  go  ?  " 

"  T  do  not  want  to  go." 

"  Wliat !  do  you  not  wish  to  return  to  your  native  coun. 
try?" 

"  No,"  said  Galdus,  passionately.  "  Why  should  I  ?  All 
are  dead,  —  father,  mother,  brothers,  sisters,  wife,  children, 
all.  Galdus  is  alone  in  the  world.  All  that  I  love  is  here. 
Wife,  and  children,  and  father,  and  mother,  are  all  alive  for 
me  in  Marcus.  He  is  more.  He  is  my  God.  Do  you 
thank  me  for  risking  my  life  for  him  ?  —  know  that  I  would 
lay  down  a  hundred  lives,  and  rejoice  to  do  it.  If  you  give 
me  my  freedom,  noble  master,  I  will  take  it ;  but  if  I  must 
leave  you,  I  will  refuse  it.  The  only  liberty  that  I  want  is 
liberty  to  be  near  Marcus.  Grant  me  that.  It  is  reward 
enough." 

The  Briton  spoke  this  in  rude,  impetuour  worda,  but  tlie 
deep  love  that  he  showed  for  Marcus  appeared  in  all  that  he 
said.     Labeo  rose,  and  took  his  hand  in  both  his. 

"  Brave  Briton,"  said  he,  "  you  were  a  noble  in  your  own 
country.  Be  free.  Be  my  equal.  Do  as  you  choose.  I 
am  no  more  your  master,  but  your  friend." 

"  You  are  the  father  of  Marcus,"  said  Galdus,  as  his  great 
breast  heaved  with  emotion  ;  "  I  will  be  either  your  friend, 
or  your  slave,  or  both." 

And  so  Galdus  was  made  free. 


XXIV. 


about 


THE  FIRST  PERSECUTION. 

FTER  the  fire,  the  city  was  rebuilt  on  a,  new  plnn,  with 
wider  streets,  and  iioiisea  of  less  hei;^ht.     Nero  be- 
}i;an  to  ereet  his  Golden  House,  where  wealth  and 
^^*^J  luxury  uniniagined  before  were  all  accumulated. 

But  in  the  bustle  and  business  of  work,  the  peo- 
ple did  not  forf]fet  the  great  calamity,  nor  did  they 
readily  lose  the  suspicion  which  they  had  formed 
the  author.  Nero  felt,  that  this  general  suspicion 
hung  like  a  fateful  cloud  impending  over  him  ;  a  thunder- 
cloud, which  might  burst  at  any  moment,  and  hurl  him  from 
bis  throne.  It  could  not  be  trifled  with,  nor  could  it  be  for- 
gotten as  an  idle  care. 

lie  sought  now  at  all  hazard  to  divert  suspicion  from  him- 
self, and  looked  aroi'nd  for  those  whom  he  might  safely 
charge  with  the  guilt  that  the  world  attributed  to  him. 

His  thoughts  at  length  were  directed  toward  the  Chris- 
tians. They  had  been  gradually  increasing  in  number  for 
years,  and  although  they  formed  but  a  small  proportion  of 
the  i)Opulation,  there  were  yet  enough  to  excite  remark. 

In  this  age,  and  through  later  times,  it  was  always  the 
fate  of  the  Christians  to  be  misunderstood.  Often  after- 
ward it  happened,  in  different  parts  of  the  worl.  ,  that  when 
public  calamities  occurred,  the  populace  laid  the  blame  to 
these  innocent  and  unoifending  people,  and  cruelly  t(>ok  ven- 
geance for  an  imaginary  offence.  And  now  there  occurred 
the  first  and  most  conspicuous  example  of  unmerited  suf!er- 
ing,  endured  by  these  men. 

(259). 


26o 


The  First  Persecution. 


'•'.'.'.      ■  / 

J  -m\ 

A 

'i 

1 

tl 

i^ 

\ 

'! 

Iw. 


1- 

>i 


1  ■  if 


^    .      _.J    ,-,u* 

§ 

^^^E" 

■ 

1 

b 

Certain  things  in  the  life  and  manners  of  the  Chrisdans 
excited  suspicion  in  the  niiud  of  a  superstitious  pop  ilace. 
Their  language  and  phraseology  were  misinterpreted.  Tlay 
spoke  of  Christ  as  their  king ;  of  a  kingdom  that  was  not  of 
this  world ;  and  this  the  ignorant  multitude  took  as  a  sort  of 
treason  against  the  emjjeror.  They  met  in  seci'et  asscmhlies, 
where  it  was  reported  that  they  indulged  in  the  worst  vices 
among  themselves.  The  mysterious  repast  which  they  cel- 
ebrated in  memory  of  their  dying  Lord,  was  particularly 
suspected.  A  report  prevailed  that  at  this  repast  they  fed 
on  human  flesh,  and  drank  human  blood ;  —  a  strange  perver- 
sion of  that  symbolical  rite,  which  represented  by  bread  and 
wine  the  body  and  blood  of  the  Saviour.  When  Carbo 
inveighed  against  the  Christians,  he  only  repeated  the  pop- 
ular opinion.  They  came  from  Syria,  or  rather  their  religion 
Ciime  from  that  quarter,  and  as  Syria  was  the  well-known 
source  of  all  the  worst  vices,  and  most  abject  superstitions  of 
the  time,  it  is,  perhaps,  not  wonderful  that  the  Roman  was 
led  to  suspect  Christianity  of  being  like  the  Syrian  religions 
of  which  he  had  heard  and  seen  so  much. 

Under  these  circumstances  Nero  determined  to  sacrifice 
these  innocent  but  suspected  men  to  the  popular  ^^^1}'.  His 
agents  wtint  everywhere  whispering  charges  against  them, 
and  filling  the  public  mind  with  ideas  of  their  guilt.  Tlie 
feeling  grew  stronger  and  stronger ;  the  name  of  Christian 
became  abhorrent ;  and  some  of  those  who  were  known  to 
belong  to  that  faith  were  mobbed  in  the  eets  by  the  furi- 
ous populace. 

The  little  flock  saw  the  storm  coming  and  trembled.  They 
knew  that  something  terrible  impended,  and  took  counsel 
together  as  to  the  best  way  in  which  to  meet  it.  But  no 
way  ap})eared,  and  so  they  made  up  their  minds  to  meet  tl.e 
worst,  whatever  it  might  be.  S^  .le  of  those  who  had  k'u»wn 
a  lai'ger  experience,  exhorted  the  younger  members  to  be 
firm,  and,  even  if  death  should  come,  to  give  up  th  'U  Uvea 
boldly  for  ilim  who  gave  his  life  for  them. 


The  First  Persecution, 


^6 1 


ace. 


nons 


They 

counsel 

But  no 

i>eet  t1>c 

|tl  k'uiwn 

irs  to  be 

>ix  lives 


At  last  the  storm  burst.  The  emperor's  procla.Ti.aLion 
appeared,  in  wliich  a  dirot  charge  was  made  against  them, 
that  they  had  burned  .'he  city  ;  and  orders  were  issued  ibr 
the  arrest  of  all  who  worshipped  Christ.  Many  people  were 
shocked  at  this  undeserved  accusation.  The  more  intelligent 
believed  that  it  was  a  trick  of  Nero's  to  keep  suspicion  from 
himself,  and  looked  upon  it  as  but  one  of  his  many  atrocities; 
but  the  larger  number  of  the  unthinking  people  accepted  the 
charge  as  a  fact,  and  clamored  for  the  blood  of  the  Christians, 
as  eagerly  as  the  Jews  once  clamored  for  that  of  Christ. 

The  Christians  waited  for  the  first  blow,  and  did  not  have 
to  wait  long.  A  descent  was  made  by  the  officials  of  the 
government  upon  four  of  their  assemblies  at  the  same  time ; 
and  all  without  exception  were  carried  off  and  thrown  into 
prison  to  await  their  doom. 

A  mockery  of  a  trial  was  then  begun.  A  set  of  aban- 
doned wi etches  came  forward  at  the  instigation  of  tL;;  em- 
peror, confessed  themselves  Christians,  swore  to  all  the 
abominable  crimes  which  were  usually  attributed  to  these, 
and  ailirmed  th'it  they  and  the  rest  of  the  Christians  had  set 
tire  to  the  city,  and  afterwards  had  kept  it  going. 

Upon  the  strength  of  this  the  Christians  were  condemned 
to  die.  An  offer  was  made  that  those  of  the  women  who 
abjured  their  faith,  might  be  spared,  but  none  were  found 
who  accepted  this. 

A  terrific  punishment  was  then  prepared  for  them.  It 
owed  its  origin  to  the  ingenuity  of  the  emperor,  who  said 
that  they  who  had  caused  the  death  of  so  many  by  fire, 
ought  themselves  to  perish  in  the  same  way,  for  then  only 
would  the  penalty  be  commensurate  with  the  crime.  He  de- 
termined, while  punishing  the  Christians,  to  amuse  the  [)0[)u- 
lace  also,  and  turn  the  scene  of  execution  into  a  great  public 
spectacle.  The  sight  of  their  sufferings  would  convince  the 
unthinking  spectators  of  their  guilt;  and  the  novel  circrm- 
stances  of  the  scene  would  have  a  mixtui-e  of  grandeur  and 
horror  that  would  m^Uie  him  popular  with  the  common  people. 


■ii''i 


m 


Hi! 


^':;  I 


•  .'I  f 


I'll! 


262 


The  First  Persecution, 


The  place  selected  for  their  punishment  was  the  Imperial 
Gardens  on  the  Vatican  Hill,  on  the  other  side  of  the  river ; 
the  same  place  where  Nero  had  sung  while  Rome  was 
burning. 

The  scene  was  worthy  of  Nero.  Hundreds  of  stakes  wore 
driven  into  the  ground  at  certain  intervals  along  the  avenues 
and  walks.  To  each  of  these  a  Christian  was  bound  firmly 
with  chains.  Each  unhappy  victim  was  wrapped  from  head 
to  foot  in  a  thick  garment  formed  of  coarse  cloth  in  various 
layers  saturated  with  pitch.  Fagots  were  heaped  around 
their  feet. 

The  unhappy  ones  awaited  their  doom  with  different  feel- 
ings. In  some  there  might  be  seen  the  triumph  of  Christian 
faith ;  but  in  many,  weak  human  nature  was  evident.  Of 
these  some  were  stupefied  with  horror ;  others  implored 
mercy  from  the  emperor,  from  the  guards,  and  from  the  pop- 
ulace. Yet  it  deserves  to  be  noted,  that  among  all  these, 
not  one  offered  to  abjure  the  Christian  faith. 

Here  were  people  of  both  sexes  and  of  all  ages  involved  in 
the  connnon  suffering.  Old  men  were  there  whose  venerable 
faces  and  reverend  locks,  and  long  liite  beards  defiled  by 
pitch,  gave  additional  horror  to  a  horrid  scene.  Yoimg 
maidens  were  there,  innocent  and  pure,  guilty  of  no  crime, 
and  their  pale,  fearful  faces  might  have  excited  pity  in  any 
population  less  hardened  than  that  of  Rome.  There  was 
none  to  save  them.  So  all  alike,  young  and  old,  cast  their 
thoughts  to  Him  who  was  able  to  save. 

On  this  evening,  the  time  of  the  first  punishment,  Nero 
was  in  high  spirits.  He  congratulated  himself  on  his  own 
ingenuity  in  thus  devising  a  plan  of  punishment  that  was 
at  once  commensurate  with  the  crime  of  the  convicted,  and  at 
the  same  time  would  give  a  new  sensation  to  tlie  Romans,  who 
so  loved  novelty.  He  had  arranged  that  the  pe()j)le  should 
be  admitted,  and  then  at  a  given  signal  the  torches  should 
be  applied. 

Nero  had  often  thrown  '^pen  his  gardens  to  the  people, 


The  First  Persecution, 


263 


mperial 
e  river ; 
me  was 


ces  wore 
aveniu's 
1(1  firmly 
om  head 
1  various 
1  around 

rent  feel- 
Christian 
ent.  Of 
implored 
\  tlie  pop- 
all  these, 

/olved  in 
Mierable 
•filed  by 
Young 
10  erinie, 
ty  in  any 
lere  was 
cast  their 

nt,  Nero 
his  own 
that  was 
d,  and  at 
ans,  who 
lo  should 
!S  should 

people, 


but  never  under  such  circumstances  as  these.  lie  had 
torches  provided  of  a  novel  description.  The  illumination 
which  he  had  provided  for  the  scene  was  tlic  burning  vic- 
tims of  his  hellish  cruelty. 

Dressed  as  a  charioteer,  the  emperor  drove  round  and 
round  the  winding  walks,  exhibiting  his  skill  to  the  crowd, 
and  enjoying  their  applause.  He  continued  this  till  dark- 
ness came,  and  his  fine  performances  could  no  longer  be 
appreciated. 

Vast  numbers  came.  Curiosity  attracted  most ;  others 
came  from  a  sort  of  cruel  desire  to  see  suifering  under  the 
immediate  management  of  one  who  was  skilled  in  inflicting 
it.  The  gardens  were  thronged  by  the  populace  of  Rome ; 
men,  women,  and  children.  They  stood  gazing  with  a  kind 
of  awful  expectation  upon  the  forms  of  the  victims  fixed  at 
their  several  stakes,  and  awaiting  the  signal  which  should 
announce  their  doom. 

At  last  the  signal  was  given. 

At  once  to  hundreds  of  piles  of  fagots,  heaped  around 
hundreds  of  stakes,  the  torches  were  applied,  and  the  fiames 
rushed  quickly  over  the  resinous  wood,  and  up  the  pitchy 
garments  of  the  victims  at  the  stake.  A  wild  red  light 
illuminated  the  frightful  scene.  The  gardens  glowed  luridly 
with  this  terrific  illumination,  and  the  glare  rose  up  high  iu 
the  air,  till  those  who  had  remained  in  the  city  looked  across 
the  Tiber,  and  saw  with  awful  feelings  the  signs  of  this  dread 
punishment. 

The  air  was  filled  with  shri<;k8  of  pain  and  cries  of  agony 
from  the  unhappy  ones  at  the  stake,  thus  dying  amid  excru- 
ciating toi'ments.  The  spectators  were  horror-stricken.  Cold- 
blooded though  they  were,  and  accustomed  to  scenes  of  cruelty 
in  the  amphitheatre,  they  nevertheless  saw  here  something 
which  exceeded  the  worst  horrors  of  Roman  sports.  It  filled 
them  with  dismay.  It  sickened  them.  The  shrieks  of  an- 
guish thrilled  through  the  hearts  of  all.  The  spectatorjj 
were  not  amused,  th'iy  were  shocked  and  sickened. 


264 


The  First  Persecution, 


But  Nero  in  his  self-complacency,  measuring  all  men  by 
himself,  and  judging  of  the  feelings  of  all  others  by  his  own, 
was  quite  unconscious  of  the  real  effect  of  his  illumination. 
As  the  light  flashed  up  from  the  burning  piles,  he  mounteil 
his  chariot  once  more,  and  resumed  his  career  througli  tlio 
paths  of  the  garden,  —  dashing  furiously  along ;  now  stopping 
his  horses  in  an  instant,  now  turning  them  sharply  to  the 
right,  now  to  the  left.  But  no  applause  came  now  to  liis 
cars.  The  emperor  however  thought  nothing  of  this ;  lio 
supposed  either  that  the  people  were  too  delighted  with  the 
s{)ectacle  to  attend  to  his  charioteering,  or  else  that  then- 
admiration  deprived  them  of  the  power  of  utterance. 

But  the  people  were  filled  with  dismay.  All  those  who 
had  any  humanity  left,  felt  sympathy  with  the  sufferers,  and 
regarded  Nero  as  the  vilest  of  tyrants.  They  stood  with 
throbbing  hearts  looking  at  the  agony  before  them,  till  the 
cries  of  pain  grew  feebler,  and  successively  the  sufferers 
passed  away  from  suffering. 

At  last  all  grew  dark ;  the  flames  ceased  ;  only  a  lurid 
fire  glowed  where  the  martyrs  had  perished  ;  and  then  in 
the  darkness,  with  low  murmurs,  the  vast  crowd  departed  to 
their  several  homes. 

Nero's  plan  was  not  altogether  successful. 

The  Christians  were  no  longer  mobbed  in  the  streets. 
The  people  felt  sorrow  for  their  fate. 

But  the  persecution  continued.  Every  day  new  victims 
were  seized.  Some  were  nailed  on  the  cross  ;  others  wore 
sewed  up  iri  the  skins  of  wild  beasts,  and  torn  to  pieces  by 
fierce  hounds ;  others  were  exposed  to  the  beasts  of  the  am- 
phitheatre, and  others  were  tortured  in  many  ways. 

But  many  of  the  more  intelligent  felt  deeply  for  the 
Christians  in  their  suffering.  They  thought  that  they  in- 
dulged in  pernicious  practices,  but  they  saw  that  they  fell  a 
sacrifice  not  to  the  public  good,  but  to  tlie  cruelty  of  one  man 
only.  Still  nothing  could  be  done.  The  emperor  was  abso- 
lute master,  and  even  if  the  people  shuddered  at  his  cruelty, 
ihey  dared  not  interpose. 


The  First  Persecution. 


265 


for  the 
[hey  in- 
ly fell  a 
line  niivn 
abso- 
I  cruelty, 


The  little  community  of  Christians  was  sadly  broken  up. 
Many  fled  to  distant  parts.  Others  concealed  themselves  in 
the  neighborhood  of  the  city.  Others  who  could  not  leave, 
calmly  waited  death. 

The  general  affliction  rested  on  none  more  heavily  than 
on  those  in  Labeo's  villa  who  loved  Christ.  Helena  was  a 
Christian,  and  did  not  know  at  what  time  even  she  might  be 
called  on  to  choose  between  abjuring  Christ,  and  death. 
Others  there  felt  that  they  were  in  greater  danger.  Helena 
might  escape.  She  was  the  wife  of  Labeo,  and  his  influence 
could  shield  her  from  harm.  But  for  Eubulus,  if  he  were 
captured,  there  could  be  no  escape.  He  was  known  as  one 
of  the  chief  Christians  of  the  place.  He  himself  feared 
nothing  at  all.  He  heard  the  news  of  the  persecution  with- 
out trepidation.  He  had  fears  for  others,  but  no  fear  for 
himself.     He  was  ready  for  any  fate. 

But  others  had  fears  for  him  when  he  had  no  fear  for 
himself.  Julius,  although  himself  in  great  danger,  deter- 
mined to  save  the  venerable  man.  Cineas  was  eager  to 
assist. 

There  was  no  place  of  escape.  Flight  from  the  ven- 
geance of  the  government  was  not  possible.  The  arms  of 
that  government  extended  over  the  civilized  world ;  there 
were  no  foreign  states  to  which  a  man  might  flee.  Parthia, 
the  savages  of  Africa,  and  the  wild  tribes  of  Germany,  — 
these  were  the  only  alternative  to  the  Roman  world,  and 
flight  to  these  barbaric  nations  was  not  to  be  thought  of. 

In  that  time  of  despair  there  ai)peared  to  Julius  and  to  the 
rest  of  the  Christians  one  place,  at  once  easy  of  access  and 
impenetrable  to  pursuit,  already  hallowed  by  Christian  asso- 
ciations, where  the  Christian  might  appropriately  seek  refuge, 
and  And  himself  in  the  midst  of  the  remains  of  those  who 
hud  gone  on  before.     This  place  was  the  catacombs. 

Excavations  had  been  made  there  already  to  a  great 
extent.  Few  knew  (he  number  of  the  passages,  or  the  direc- 
tion in  which  they  led.    All  the  passages  were  cut  through 


266 


The  First  Persecution. 


a  sort  of  stone  which  remuined  firm,  and  grew  stronger  with 
age,  altlioiigh  soft  wlien  first  cut.  Tlie  numerous  passages 
formed  a  labyrinth,  in  wliich  pursuit  became  impossible. 
Whether  it  was  an  anticipaticm  of  such  a  time  as  this,  lead- 
ing the  Christians  to  regard  this  as  a  place  of  retreat  in 
danger,  or  as  is  more  probable,  the  mere  instinct  of  safety 
drawing  them  here,  cannot  be  known,  nor  does  it  matter; 
certain  it  is  that  at  the  first  cruel  outbreak  of  the  persecution, 
great  numbers  fled  here  for  safety,  and  took  up  their  abode 
in  these  gloomy  vaults. 

It  was  to  this  place  that  Julius  determined  to  take  Eubu- 
lus.  At  first  the  old  man  positively  refused,  being  eager,  as 
he  said,  to  die  for  his  Saviour ;  but  Julius  worked  upon  him 
through  his  love  for  his  daughter,  and  thus  induced  him  to 
go  there.  Lydia  might  perhaps  have  remained  in  safety  in 
Labeo's  house,  under  the  protection  of  Helena;  but  she  re- 
fused to  think  of  separation  from  her  father.  Whatever  his 
fate  might  be,  she  determined  to  share  it,  and  chose  rather 
to  live  in  these  subterranean  vaults,  amid  the  mouldering 
remains  of  the  dead,  than  purchase  comfort  by  allowing  the 
aged  man  to  go  there  alone. 

Here,  then,  Eubulus  and  Lydia  sought  refuge,  and  Julius 
accom|)anied  them.  He  was  in  the  greatest  danger.  His 
name  had  been  struck  off  the  military  list,  and  he  had  been 
publicly  proclaimed  as  a  traitor  and  an  outlaw.  But  he 
showed  neither  regret  nor  irresolution.  His  faith  and  his 
conscience  sustained  him,  and  beside  this,  even  in  these  dim 
caverns,  the  light  of  existence  could  not  altogether  fade,  for 
to  him  the  darkness  was  brightened  by  the  presence  of 
Lydia. 

Very  many  had  found  refuge  here.  Far  beneath  the 
streets  of  that  city  there  lived  another  life,  whose  existence 
w^as  but  little  suspected  by  the  population  above.  At  first 
men  only  came,  but  after  a  time,  when  it  was  found  that 
women  were  as  readily  seized  and  put  to  death  as  men,  then 
they  fled  here  also.     Whenever  it  was  possible  they  left  all 


The  First  Pcrscctiiion. 


267 


the  younger  children  behind  in  the  charge  of  others ;  but 
often  this  was  not  possible,  and  there  were  many  little  chil- 
dren in  these  dismal  vaults,  shut  out  from  that  light  of  day 
which  to  their  tender  years  is  so  great  a  necessity.  Mothers 
were  here,  too,  with  little  infants,  which  they  had  still  to 
carry  about  in  their  arms. 

Sadness  reigned  on  all  faces,  but  there  was  universal  pa- 
tience. None  complained.  All  along  they  had  been  expect- 
ing some  such  fate  as  this.  Besides,  their  lot  at  first 
seemed  far  better  than  that  of  those  who  had  perished  on 
the  cross  or  by  fire.  At  first  it  seemed  so ;  but  as  time 
passed,  and  the  gloom  deepened  around  them,  this  living 
burial  seemed  worse  than  death.  Then  many  left  their 
concealment,  i)artly  from  despair,  partly  from  a  noble  spirit 
of  self-sacrifice,  for  sustenance  was  difficult  to  procui'e,  and 
tliose  who  left  thought  that  life  would  be  easier  to  those  who 
remained. 

The  little  children  felt  the  influence  of  this  sombre  and 
gloomy  life  most  quickly,  and  most  fatally.  Many  sickened 
at  once,  and  died  in  their  parents'  arms.  Others  lived, 
wasted  to  skeletons,  with  a  life  that  hovered  on  the  verge  of 
death.  Often  the  parents  of  these  hapless  innociaits  ven- 
tured forth,  daring  all  dangers  for  the  sake  of  their  children. 
Some  went  back  to  the  city  to  their  old  abodes ;  others  tried 
to  go  away  to  distant  places  where  they  ho[)ed  to  be  more 
i^t'cure  ;  but  among  these  fugitives  many  were  discovered, 
tried,  and  put  to  death,  and  thus  there  seemed  to  be  a  con- 
siant  su[»ply  of  victims. 

Thus  there  were  deep  sadness  and  melancholy  through  all 
tliis  gloomy  place.  Sometimes  the  words  of  the  gospel  com- 
municated to  them  by  their  leaders,  would  diffuse  a  mo- 
mentary relief,  and  would  even  fill  them  with  something  like 
exultation.  But  these  feelings  were  only  transitory;  no 
joy  or  content  could  endure  in  so  frightful  a  place ;  the 
gloom  affected  the  physical  constitutioii,  and  thus  acted  upon 
the  mind  also. 


268 


The  First  Persecution. 


The  common  attitude  of  these  Christian  fugitives  was  one 
of  patient  resignation.  They  lost  all  hope  in  this  life,  and 
looked  eagerly  to  the  next  one.  They  reflected  that  Christ 
had  foretold  that  sorrow  would  be  the  lot  of  his  followers; 
and  in  that  sorrow  they  could  only  bow  their  heads,  and 
meekly  acquiesce  in  his  will. 

Yet  in  that  sad,  mourning  crowd,  there  was  one  who 
seemed  to  know  nothing  either  of  sadness  or  mournfulness. 
This  was  the  venerable  Eubulus. 

A  change  came  over  him  in  this  place.  Before  this  he 
had  been  a  meditative  and  reserved  man,  perpetually  fearful 
of  sin,  and  despondent  about  his  faith.  But  this  new  life 
brought  its  changes,  and  Eubulus  seemed  to  feel  that  with 
him  it  was  not  enough  to  shut  himself  up  with  his  own 
thoughts. 

But  Eubulus  had  known  in  the  past  a  memorable  experi- 
ence, which  it  is  not  necessary  to  rehearse  here,  yet  it  was 
one  which  could  afford  hope  to  others,  and  the  recollection 
of  which  could  give  comfort  to  his  own  soul.  Buried  here 
amid  this  gloom,  his  usual  introspective  habits  departed,  and 
his  despondency  also.  He  seemed  anxious  to  devote  him- 
self to  the  task  of  encouraging  those  around  him,  and  in  his 
firm  faith  others  found  peace.  What  was  it  that  so  changed 
him?  Was  it  the  effort  of  the  immortal  spirit,  with  a  pre- 
monition of  its  departure,  to  pass  its  last  time  on  earth  in 
most  effectually  serving  its  Lord  ? 

Many  of  the  Christians  went  up  into  the  city  for  food, 
choosing  the  night  rather  than  the  day.  Of  these  a  large 
number  never  I'eturned.  But  their  fate  did  not  deter  others. 
There  were  many  in  the  city  who  sympathized  with  them, 
and  assisted  them,  sometimes  at  the  hazard  of  their  lives. 

But  the  most  active  friend  whom  they  had  was  Cineas. 
His  vast  wealth  enabled  him  to  employ  a  large  number  of 
men  to  convey  provisions  to  the  neighborhood.  As  he  was 
also  known  to  have  some  kind  of  a  public  commission  for 
the  comfort  of  the  people,  he  was  never  suspected.     He  was 


The  First  Persecution. 


269 


thus  able  to  do  much  for  the  fugitives,  with  whom  he  felt  so 
deep  n  sympathy.  Very  often  he  went  down  himself,  and 
tried  to  cheer  them,  but  he  soon  saw  that  no  human  words 
conld  bring  comfort  to  hearts  like  these.  Still,  hi-<  face  and 
his  form  became  well  known  to  all  liere,  and  they  knew,  too, 
that  he  was  not  one  of  themselves  ;  they  gradually  learned  all 
about  him,  and  many  and  many  a  prayer  went  up  for  this 
generous  friend.  If  the  consciousness  of  doing  good  can 
bring  happiness,  then  Cineas  at  this  time  must  have  known 
the  greatest  happiness  of  his  life.  His  arrival  was  the  sig- 
nal for  eager  welcome  from  sincere  and  grateful  hearts. 
Men  looked  on  him  with  reverential  affection,  and,  as  he 
moved  along,  all  around  him  invoked  the  richest  blessings 
of  Heaven  on  his  head. 

Sometimes,  und(!r  the  protection  of  Julius,  Lydia  visited 
the  upper  air,  and  was  able  to  inhale  the  pure  atmosphere, 
and  gain  strength  to  support  her  in  her  subterranean  life. 
No  one  tried  .iny  longer  to  induce  her  to  leave  this  place, 
for  she  had  no  thought  of  leaving  her  father. 

Among  those  who  went  up  most  frequently  was  Julius. 
He  went  up  indifferently  by  night  or  by  day.  Daring  to 
the  verge  of  rashness,  fertile  in  resoui'ce,  and  quick  in  ex- 
pedients, he  had  encountered  many  perils,  and  had  often 
been  on  the  very  verge  of  capture,  but  he  had  managed  thus 
far  to  escape.  His  friends  trembled  for  his  safety ;  but 
could  not  prevent  his  adventurous  spirit  from  taking  the 
chief  part  in  the  perils  of  the  upper  world. 

But  Eubulus  had  not  a  long  captivity.  The  close  atmos- 
phere, the  chill,  damp  air,  and  the  darkness,  all  served  to 
weaken  his  strength.  Day  after  day  he  grew  weaker. 
Tliey  besought  him  to  return  to  Labeo's  villa,  but  he  re- 
fused. 

"  No,"  said  he.  "  Once  I  would  have  gladly  stayed  there 
and  met  my  fate,  but  now  I  will  give  the  remainder  of  niy 
life  to  these  sorrowing  ones  around  me.  1  feel  that  they  re- 
ceive comfort  from  my  words." 

23* 


11 


Ml 


270 


The  First  Pcrsccutioti, 


So  tlie  old  niaii  eoiitimu'd  his  fond  em[)loy,  and  as  Ion;;  as 
he  could  speak,  those  gloomy  caverns  seemed  not  altogether 
dark. 

But  at  last  his  voice  ceased  forever. 

He  passed  away  in  the  night.  It  was  Lydia  who  first 
discovered  the  dread  truth.  She  found  her  father,  one  morn- 
ing, lying  still  and  (lold  on  his  couch.  Her  cries  bronglit  all 
aroinid  to  the  spot.  There  they  saw  the  body  of  the  old 
man,  from  which  the  freed  spirit  had  taken  its  everlasting 
flight. 

TIn.'re  was  gloom  enough  after  that.  They  missed  his 
venerable  form,  his  majestic  countenance,  but,  most  of  all, 
they  missed  his  words,  that  never  ceased  to  carry  with  tluin 
hope  and  peace  and  divine  consolation.  What  could  sujjply 
the  i)lacc  ? 

As  for  Lydia,  when  the  old  man  wsis  buried,  Cineas  in- 
sisted that  she  should  go  and  live  with  Helena.  In  her  grief 
and  loneliness  she  had  no  will  of  her  own,  and  mechanically 
yielded  to  the  suggestion.     Helena  received  her  as  a  sister. 

Dark  and  gloomy  enough  was  the  place  to  Julius  then. 
But  he  continued  to  labor  as  before  for  the  common  good, 
and  the  only  difference  that  these  things  made  in  his  outward 
actions,  was  that  he  became  even  more  rash,  more  daring, 
and  more  careless  of  his  own  life  than  ever.  Yet  it  seemed 
as  though  Heaven  watched  over  him.  He  encountered  perils 
every  day,  yet  managed  to  elude  all  danger. 

Cineas  labored  all  the  moi-e  zealously  for  these  afflicted 
ones,  as  he  saw  their  imprisonment  j)rolonged  and  their  sor- 
row deepen.  Much  he  marvelled  at  that  resolution  whicli 
was  maintained  under  such  cii'cumstances,  and  at  that  failh 
which  lay  beneath  all  that  resolution.  He  thought  that  he 
himself  would  make  but  a  poor  Christian,  for  he  did  not  feel 
as  though  he  could  endure  all  this  for  any  belief  whatever. 
He  thought  that  he  could  die  for  conscience'  sake,  but  this  life 
seemed  like  a  lingering  death,  more  terrible  than  any  which 
was  encountered  on  the  cross,  or  at  the  stake. 


The  First  Per  seen  t  ton. 


271 


In  tlioir  sorrow  thoy  soiifrlit  expression  for  all  tlioir  feel- 
ings ill  those  psiilins  wliicli  they  loved  to  sing, —  tlie  psalms 
of  the  Jews,  which  the  Christians  had  also  adopted,  and  to 
whicii  they  iuid  given  a  new  meaning:  — 

"0  Lord  God  of  my  salvation, 
I  litive  cried  day  and  iii^lit  l)cforu  theo; 
Li't  my  praytT  fonic  before  tlice; 
Incline  thine  car  nnto  my  cry; 
For  my  soul  is  fidl  of  troubles 
And  my  life  drawctti  ni^;ii  nnto  the  pravc. 
I  am  counted  with  tluni  that  ;{o  down  into  the  pit; 
I  am  as  a  nnui  that  hath  no  stren^^th; 
Fii'c  aim)nf^  the  (had,  likt;  the  slain  who  lie  iu  the  grave, 
Whom  thou  remcniliercst  no  more, 
And  tiiey  are  cut  off  from  thy  hand. 
Thou  ha.st  laid  me  in  the  lowest  pit. 
In  darkness,  in  the  deeps; 
Thy  wratli  lies  h;ird  upon  me. 
And  thuu  hast  alHicted  nie  with  all  thy  waves." 

Here  despair  seemed  to  find  ntterance.  These  men  took 
all  these  words  to  themselves,  and  saw  in  them  something 
prophetic.  Wliile  they  strove  to  attain  to  resignation  and 
patience,  they  yet  felt  themselves  forced  to  speak  forth  their 
sorrow  in  words,  and  when  those  words  might  be  found  in 
the  inspired  volume,  there  they  adopted  them,  and  used  them. 
Among  these  there  was  another  psalm  which  often  was  heard 
here  at  this  time  :  — 


"  Out  of  the  depths  have  I  cried  unto  thee,  0  Lord! 
Lord,  hear  my  voice; 

Let  thine  ears  be  attentive  to  the  voice  of  my  supplications. 
If  thou,  Lord,  shouldst  mark  iniquities, 
()  Lord  !  who  shall  stand? 
r>ut  there  is  forgiveness  with  thee. 
That  thou  niayest  be  feared. 
I  wait  for  the  Lord,  —  my  soul  doth  wait. 
And  ill  his  word  do  I  hope; 

My  soul  waitoth  for  the  Lord  more  than  they  that  watch  for  the  morning, 
I  say  more  than  they  that  watch  for  the  morning. 
Let  Israel  hope  in  the  Lord; 


>|! 


ilElllil 


II    I 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


7 


/ 


O 


{/ 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


2.5 
2.2 


2.0 


1.8 


U    nil  1.6 


iti 


V] 


/] 


^%. 


O 


/: 


/ 


/A 


I 


% 


((> 


272 


The  First  Persecution, 


For  with  the  Lord  there  is  mercy, 

And  with  him  is  plenteous  redemption, 

And  he  shall  redeem  Israel  from  all  his  iniquities." 

With  these  psalms  of  the  Jewish  church  there  mingled  the 
Christian  hymns.  Rude  in  structure,  and  formed  from  the 
rhyming  popular  models,  the  taste  formed  by  the  culture  of 
that  age  might  be  offended,  but  if  the  harmony  of  sound  was 
wanting,  the  soul  could  see  deep  meaning  in  the  words,  and 
receive  comfort. 

"  Though  through  the  vale  I  go 

Oppressed  and  terrified, 
In  darkness  and  alone, 

With  fear  on  every  side, 
Yet  soars  my  spirit  up 

From  pangs  of  death  to  sing: 
'  0  Grave !  where  is  thy  victory  ? 

O  Death !  where  is  thy  sting?  '  " 


"  In  deep  grief  and  in  dark, 
With  fear  on  every  side, 
I  know  in  whom  I  trust, 
I  know  the'  Crucified, 
Ho  lifts  my  spirit  up 

From  pangs  of  death  to  sing: 
'  0  Grave !  where  is  thy  victory  ? 
O  Death !  where  is  thy  sting  ?  '  '* 


XXV. 


THE   CONSPIRACY. 

HITS  for  many  and  many  a  weary  month  life  was 
only  safe  to  the  Christian  by  the  sacrifice  of  that 
Hght  of  clay,  without  which  life  is  worth  but  little. 
Cineas  went  near  the  court  but  seldom.     His 
^' "fF^^  duties  in  behalf  of  the  public,  and  the  poor,  who 
^  ^'      yet  remained,  to  a  great  extent,  homeless  and  desti- 

%  tute,  formed  a  sort  of  an  excuse.  The  idea  of  again 
associating  with  Nero  filled  him  with  horror.  To  him  he 
attributed  all  the  hideous  scenes  which  he  had  lately  wit- 
nessed, —  the  fire ;  the  grief  and  the  destruction  of  the  peo- 
ple ;  the  cruel  punishment  of  the  Christians ;  their  life  and 
sufferings  below  the  ground.  He  seemed  to  Cineas  now  like 
the  enemy  of  the  human  race,  —  Dis  himself,  incarnate,  sent 
to  inflict  agony  and  woe  on  the  people.  On  that  monarch 
and  his  court  he  looked  with  loathing,  and  he  felt  that  he 
would  risk  every  danger  rather  than  resume  his  former  life 
there. 

To  one  so  jealous  as  Nero,  this  action  of  Cineas  would 
have  caused  jealousy  and  suspicion,  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances, and  these  would  have  certainly  resulted  in  charac- 
teristic vengeance.  But  the  fact  was,  Nero  had  forgotten  all 
about  him.  The  scenes  of  the  last  few  months  had  thrown 
him  out  of  his  literary  tastes  completely.  He  was  just  now 
intent  above  all  things  on  the  destruction  of  the  Christians. 
The  fact  that  they  were  innocent  only  gave  zest  to  the  occu- 
pation. As  to  their  particular  belief,  he  was  supremely  in- 
different.    Their  flight  to  mysterious  hiding-places,  where 

they  baffled  him  so  completely,  filled  him  with  greater  ani- 

(273) 


274 


The  Conspiracy. 


mosity,  and  made  liim  only  the  more  eager  to  complete  their 
destruction. 

But  now  an  event  occirred  which  turned  the  thouglits  of 
Nero  in  a  new  direction,  and  lessened  his  vindictivencss 
against  the  Christians,  by  showing  him  a  new  class  of  ene- 
mies, who  were  more  terrible  by  far. 

The  atrocities  of  Nero  had  tilled  the  public  mind  with 
horror,  and  some  courageous  men  thouglit  that  they  might 
find  a  way  to  rid  the  world  of  such  a  monster.  A  conspiracy 
was  formed,  which  embraced  many  men  of  tlie  highest  rank 
and  influence  in  the  state.  They  saw  that  the  empire  was 
going  to  ruin,  and  sought,  while  getting  rid  of  Nero,  t5  find 
some  one  who  was  capable  of  remedying  the  evil.  This 
man  some  thought  they  saw  in  Seneca  ;  but  others,  and  the 
majority,  preferred  Caius  Piso,  who  was  descended  from  the 
house  of  Calpurnius,  and  related  to  the  best  families  of 
Rome.  He  had  an  amiable  character ;  and  his  affable  and 
courteous  manners  made  him  popular  among  his  friends  ;  he 
was  not  particularly  rigid  in  his  morals ;  but  this,  to  the  con- 
spirators, was  no  disadvantage.  The  conspiracy  was  carried 
on  with  such  spirit  that  it  was  scarcely  begun  when  it  was 
almost  ripe  for  execution.  Senators,  knights,  soldiers,  and 
even  women,  joined  it  with  enthusiasm,  all  being  animated 
by  their  common  hatred  of  Nero. 

The  day  had  been  fixed,  and  all  things  arranged,  even 
down  to  the  minutest  details ;  the  one  who  should  give  the 
first  stroke  was  appointed ;  but  suddenly,  through  the  care- 
lessness of  one  of  the  chief  conspirators,  all  was  lost.  The 
freedman  of  one  of  the  leaders  found  it  out,  and  made  it 
known.  Instantly  a  number  were  arrested  and  put  to  the 
torture.  Their  confession  served  to  implicate  others.  Mui-e 
were  seized  and  served  in  the  same  way.  All  was  disclosed. 
The  confession  of  one  involved  the  confession  of  all.  Tlie 
rack  subdued  their  resolution.  The  poet  Lucan  lost  his  for- 
titude under  torture,  and  charged  his  own  mother  with  the 
guilt  of  being  accessory  to  the  plot. 


The  Conspiracy . 


275 


Then  began  +he  work  of  vengeance.  All  who  in  any  way, 
real  or  imaginary,  were  supposed  to  be  connected  with  the 
conspiracy  were  seized  and  put  to  death.  Some  of  these 
were-  actually  guilty.  Against  others  nothing  could  be 
proved.  The  most  eminent  of  the  sufferers  was  the  illustri- 
ous Seneca.  This  man,  with  all  his  faults,  and  they  were 
not  few,  was  the  most  conspicuous  in  the  age,  and  his  death, 
inflicted  without  just  cause,  has  given  additional  lustre  to  his 
name. 

When  the  message  of  death  was  brought  to  Seneca,  ho 
heard  it  with  calm  composure.  He  was  not  allowed  to  make 
his  will ;  so  he  told  his  friends  that,  although  he  was  deprived 
of  the  power  of  requiting  their  services  with  the  last  marks 
of  his  esteem,  yet  he  could  leave  them  the  example  of  his  life, 
which  they  could  cherish  in  their  memories.  Seeing  them 
burst  into  tears,  he  said,  "  Where  are  the  precepts  of  phi- 
losophy which  for  years  have  taught  us  to  meet  the  calami- 
ties of  life  with  firmness  ?  Was  the  cruelty  of  Nero  unknown 
to  any  of  us  ?  He  murdered  his  mother;  he  destroyed  liis 
brother ;  and  after  those  horrible  acts,  what  remains  but  to 
complete  his  crimes  by  the  murder  of  his  tutor  ?  " 

Then  he  turned  his  attention  to  his  wife,  and  embracing 
her,  for  a  moment  yielded  to  his  emotions.  Then,  recovering 
himself,  he  entreated  her  to  mitigate  her  grief.  But  his  wife 
was  inconsolable,  and  determined  to  die  with  her  husband. 
Seneca  thought  that  her  resolution  was  a  generous  one  and 
ought  not  to  be  resisted.  "  Since  you  will  have  it  so," 
said  he,  "we  will  die  together.  We  will  leave  an  example 
of  etpial  constancy,  but  you  will  have  the  chief  glory." 

Then  their  veins  were  opened.  Seneca  was  old,  and  his 
blood  did  not  flow  freely.  He  ordered  additional  veins  to  be 
opened.  Then  his  sufferings  began  to  overpower  him,  and 
fearing  that  the  sight  of  his  anguish  might  distress  his  wife, 
he  persuaded  her  to  be  taken  to  another  room.  Then  ho 
calmly  called  for  his  secretary  and  dictated  a  farewell  dis- 
course, which  was  published  after  his  death. 


Wfi 


II 


■l   \ 


\    ' 


1    1 


276 


The  Conspiracy. 


His  wife,  however,  was  not  suffered  to  die.  Nero  feared 
that  this  additional  victim  would  injai*e  him  in  the  estima- 
tion of  the  people,  and  by  his  orders  her  veins  were  bound 
up,  and  she  was  saved.  She  was  already  in  a  state  of  insen- 
sibility, and  awaked  to  a  life  to  which  she  had  been  recalled 
involuntarily. 

While  his  wife  was  thus  saved,  Seneca  lingered  in  agony. 
Finding  his  death  prolonged,  he  called  1  "  some  poison,  which 
was  given  to  him.  But  the  effect  •-  jcarcely  perceptible. 
He  longed  to  get  rid  of  life.  H.  *  'shed  also  to  show  what 
contempt  of  death  might  be  ^x'eated  by  philosophy.  So  when 
he  found  that  the  poison  had  an  insufficient  effect,  he  re- 
quested to  be  placed  in  a  warm  bath.  Being  placed  there, 
he  sprinkled  his  slaves  with  water,  and  said,  "  I  make  liba- 
tion to  Jupiter,  the  deliverer."  Then  the  vapor  overpowered 
him,  and  death  soon  came.  So  died  Seneca,  a  man  with 
many  faults,  but  who  showed  himself,  at  least,  fearless  of 
death,  and  maintained  his  calmness  till  the  end. 

The  next  one  in  eminence  who  was  sacrificed  to  the  ven- 
geance of  Nero,  was  Lucan,  the  famous  poet.  Of  his  guilt 
and  complicity  in  the  conspiracy  there  was  no  doubt.  His 
veins  were  opened,  and  the  blood  flowed  freely  from  him. 
The  extremities  of  his  limbs  lost  their  strength  and  vital 
heat  first,  and  the  wai'mth  retreated  to  his  heart ;  but  he  re- 
tained the  vigor  of  his  mind  until  the  last.  Then  there  oc- 
curred to  his  memory  the  lines  in  his  Pharsalia,  which 
describe  a  soldier  dying  in  the  same  condition.  These  he 
repeated,  and  while  uttering  them  he  breathed  his  last. 

Engaged  in  such  a  work  as  this,  it  is  not  wonderful  that 
J^ero  forgot  for  a  time  the  milder  charms  of  art  and  literature. 
Vengeance  took  up  all  his  thoughts.  The  death  of  Seneca 
gave  him  peculiar  delight,  for  the  venerable  character  of  the 
man,  and  his  lofty  fame,  made  that  death  in  the  highest  de- 
gree striking.  Nero  also  was  delighted  at  the  circumstances 
which  accompanied  it.  He  vowed  that  it  was  a  scene  of  the 
highest  dramatic  effect,  and  ought  to  be  represented  on  the 


^   i 


The  Conspiracy. 


277 


stage.  TTc  ro^rnrdcd  \\\o  devotion  of  liis  wife  as  somotliing 
admirable,  and  felt  sorry  that  he  had  interfered.  He  felt 
that  he  had  irretrievably  spoiled  a  grand  tragic  scene  worthy 
of  Sophocles.  He  declared  that  on  another  occasion  of  the 
kind  he  would  risk  anything  rather  than  spoil  such  an  atFect- 
ing  display  of  true  tragic  pathos. 

As  to  Lucan,  he  felt  veiy  much  in  the  same  way.  The 
death  of  that  poet  gave  him  pleasure,  because  Lucan  had 
entered  into  rivalry  with  him,  and  had  been  successful,  on 
which  account  Nero  had  never  ceased  to  be  mortally  jealous 
of  him.  With  him  jealousy  meant  vengeance,  and  now  that 
vengeauQe  was  satiated.  Yet  so  singular  was  the  nature  of 
this  man,  that  when  Lucan's  death  was  described  he  was 
affected  to  tears.  He  declared  that  he  never  believed  that 
Lucan  had  such  fine  taste.  To  die  with  such  an  appropri- 
ate quotation  on  one's  lips  was  admirable.  He  only  objected 
that  Lucan  had  quoted  his  own  poetry,  and  thought  of  some 
of  his  own  compositions  which  would  have  been  more  effect- 
ive under  the  circumstances. 

Cineas  and  Labeo  were  therefore  quite  forgotten,  and 
indeed  Nero  felt  a  sort  of  relief  at  the  absence  of  Cineas,  for 
if  he  had  been  present  he  would  have  felt  half  ashamed  of 
his  loss  of  interest  in  literature  and  philosophy.  The  con- 
spiracy filled  all  his  thouglits.  Fortunate  it  was  for  Cineas 
that  he  had  never  associated  to  any  extent  with  the  chief 
men  in  Rome.  It  saved  him  now.  For  now  all  men  were 
suspected,  yet  no  one  dreamed  of  laying  anything  to  the 
charge  of  Cineas,  for  it  was  well  known  that  he  had  never 
mixed  with  Roman  society,  and  that  although  to  some  ex- 
tent a  courtier,  he  had  confined  all  his  attentions  to  Nero. 
Tlie  fact  was  that  Roman  society  was  always  distasteful. 
The  virtuous  were  too  harsh  and  severe ;  and  the  vicious 
were  too  debased.  Tliere  were  s^ood  men  in  Rome  whom 
he  adrniiv.:d  sincerely,  but  he  cared  nothing  for  their  society. 
His  Greek  nature  desired  something  more  genial,  more  play- 
ful, and  less  austere  than  the  Roman  of  the  virtuous  class. 
24 


H 


ir' 


Hi 


.::.r 


li:h> 


II     i 


278 


The  Conspiracy . 


His  wide  attainments  in  philosophy  were  also  altogetlier 
Greek;  he  knew  little  of  Latin  literature,  and  cared  less; 
in  the  object  of  his  life  he  found  nothing  there  which  could 
excite  any  interest,  and  he  cared  more  for  the  simple  writ- 
ings of  the  Christians  than  for  all  the  works  of  Cicero.  All 
this  had  kept  Cineas  away  from  the  leading  men  of  Rome. 
Burrhus,  Nero,  and  Labeo  were  all  with  whom  he  had  asso- 
ciated; and  even  Tigellinus,  if  he  had  wished  to  make  a 
charge  against  him  by  means  of  his  false  witnesses,  could 
have  invented  no  coherent  plot. 

Nero  had  so  completely  forgotten  Cineas  and  Labeo  that 
in  the  course  of  promotion  to  higher  ofhces  the  latter  was 
overlooked,  and  a  friend  of  Tigellinus  was  put  in  the  very 
place  to  which  he  confidently  expected  to  be  advanced.  Re- 
monstrance was  of  course  useless,  even  if  it  had  been  possi- 
ble for  him  to  condescend  to  it.  He  was  compelled  to  bear 
his  disappointment  as  best  he  could.  That  disappointment 
was  indeed  severe.  It  filled  his  mind  with  gloom.  He  had 
thought  that  his  future  was  secure,  and  in  the  oi'dinary  rou- 
tine had  looked  forward  in  a  short  time  to  a  high  position  in 
some  province  from  which  he  might  rise  to  be  governor. 
But  now  this  interruption  in  his  advance  broke  up  all  those 
bright  prospects.  He  saw  plainly  that  if  in  the  very  fulness 
of  his  prosperity  such  a  blow  could  fall,  that  now  in  his 
adversity  no  change  for  the  better  could  reasonably  be 
expected. 

In  his  disappointment  he  had  no  other  present  resource 
but  to  return  to  his  villa,  and  wait  for  something  better.  Per- 
ha})s  he  might  yet  get  promotion  in  the  army ;  perhaps  after 
a  while  some  better  prospect  might  arise.  So  severe  had 
been  the  blow  to  his  ambitious  projects  that  he  thought  of 
nothing  but  his  own  affairs.  The  recent  calamities  shocked 
him,  but  inspired  his  mind  with  none  of  that  horror  which 
Cineas  felt.  He  contented  himself  with  saying  nothing.  He 
did  not  feel  called  on  to  interfere  in  one  way  or  another. 
If  his  promotion  had  gone  on,  he  would  have  been  willing  to 


The  Conspiracy. 


279 


remain  in  connection  with  the  court,  even  if  Nero  had  en- 
tereil  upon  worse  crimes  than  ever.  It  would  have  suffi- 
ciently satisfied  his  conscience  if  he  had  kept  clear  of  actual 
guilt. 

As  time  went  on  and  he  found  himself  still  without  occu- 
pation, he  constantly  suspected  that  some  enemy  had  inter- 
fered with  his  prospects,  and  his  mind  could  not  help  turning 
to  Tigcllinus  and  Hegio.  That  the  latter  had  set  tire  to  his 
house  he  firmly  believed,  and  did  not  know  how  f"r  he  might 
have  infiuence  with  his  new  master.  Under  these  circum- 
stances he  thought  that  the  best  thing  would  be  to  keep  on 
his  guard  against  any  new  misfortunes  from  the  same  source. 
In  his  conferences  with  Isaac  he  found  that  Hegio  had  be- 
come one  of  the  most  active  attendants  on  Tigellinus,  and 
was  rapidly  increasing  in  wealth  and  in  importance.  He 
felt  that  Hegio  might  yet  cherish  thoughts  of  vengeance,  and 
that  this  should  be  guarded  against.  For  this  purpose  he 
could  think  of  no  one  better  than  Galdus. 

"  Galdus,"  said  he  one  day  when  he  had  sent  for  the 
Briton.  "•You  are  not  my  servant  now,  but  my  friend. 
Are  you  not  ?  " 

"  You  have  called  me  so,"  said  the  Briton  with  dignity, 
"  and  I  only  wait  for  an  opportunity  to  prove  myself  worthy 
of  the  name." 

"I  have  not  forgotten  your  heroic  act.  Do  you  know 
who  caused  that,  —  who  set  the  house  on  fire,  and  almost 
destroyed  my  son  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Galdus,  with  a  wild  fire  in  his  eyes,  "  who  ?  " 

"  He  is  my  worst  enemy.  He  was  once  my  servant,  but 
I  dismissed  him  for  dishonesty.  He  seeks  to  take  vengeance 
on  me  for  tliis." 

"  He  shall  die  !  "  cried  Galdus,  with  the  look  of  a  savage. 

"  No,  no;  you  are  in  a  civilized  land,  not  in  Britain.  It  is 
not  so  easy  to  kill  men  in  Rome.  I  wish  you  to  watch  out 
for  this  man.  He  is  an  Asiatic,  with  brown  skin,  black  curl- 
ing hair,  black  eyes,  and  the  face  of  a  villain.     His  name  is 


'I  ■ 


lUli  r:E] 


28o 


The  Conspiracy . 


Hcgio.  Watch  out  for  him.  If  you  ever  see  him  on  these 
grounds,  do  what  you  hke  with  him.  If  you  ever  see  him  in 
this  neighborhood,  let  me  know.  He  is  still  trying  to  injure 
me,  and  I  believe  that  he  has  recently  done  me  a  great 
wrong.     He  may  yet  do  worse." 

"  If  he  does,  —  he  dies,"  said  Galdus,  slowly  and  solemnly. 


T 


XXVI. 


THE  ARREST. 

NE  day  Labeo  received  a  visit  from  one  whom  be 
had  not  seen  for  a  long  time. 
It  was  Julius. 

Pale,  emaciated,  and  haggard,  he  looked  but  lit- 
tle like  that  stout  young  soldier  who  formerly  had 
been  here.  Cineas  had  seen  him  constantly,  ever 
since  his  new  life,  but  Labeo  had  not.  There  was 
anxiety  in  his  face,  which  struck  Cineas  at  once,  and  excited 
ills  apprehensions. 

"  There  is  bad  news  ?  "  said  Cineas,  inquiringly,  after  the 
first  salutations  were  over. 

"  There  is,"  said  Julius,  gloomily,  "  or  else  I  would  not 
have  entered  the  house  of  a  public  officer." 
"  That  I  am  no  longer,"  said  Labeo. 
"  True,"  said  Julius,  sadly,  regarding  him  for  a  moment. 
Then  with  a  hurried  movement,  —  "  There's  no  time  to  lose, 
—  I  bring  fearful  news  to  you." 
"What?" 

"  Labeo,  your  wife  is  a  Christian." 

Labeo  and  Cineas  turned  as  pale  as  ashes,  and  looked  at 
each  other,  while  a  feeling  of  sickening  horror  thrilled 
through  them.  The  fiict  that  Helena  was  a  Christian  was 
of  course  well  enough  known  to  both,  but  in  these  fearful 
times  of  persecution  and  proscription  the  hurried  visit  of 
this  outlaw,  with  these  words  on  his  lips,  had  a  fearful 
meaning. 

24*  (281) 


282 


The  Arrest. 


"  Well  ?  "  said  Labeo,  in  a  voice  which  was  scarce  audi- 
ble. 

"  They  are  going  to  arrest  her,"  said  Julius. 

"  Arrest  her !  " 

"  Yes.     And  there  is  no  time  to  lose.     Slie  must  fly." 

«  Fly  !  _  where  ?  " 

"  To  the  catacombs." 

"To  the  catacombs!  —  to  a  living  tomb!  And  why?" 
cri(.'d  Labeo,  passionately.  "  Who  would  dare  to  arrest 
her?  She  is  not  a  common  woman  of  the  mob.  She  is  not 
a  thing  for  informers  and  perjured  witnesses  to  practise  on. 
Let  them  try  it  if  they  dare." 

"There  is  no  time  to  lose,"  cried  Julius,  interrupting  hiin, 
"  not  a  moment.  I  came  out  to  save  them,  and  to  save  also 
Lydia.  They  must  fly,  —  with  me,  —  at  once,  —  or  they  are 
lost!" 

"  Fly  !  —  like  criminals  !  Fly  !  —  my  wife  !  —  never," 
cried  Labeo,  vehemently.  "Never.  There  is  no  such 
thing  as  this  yet.  I  have  not  fallen  so  low.  While  I  live 
she  shall  live.     She  shall  not  go  there,  —  no,  —  never." 

"  Think  of  Nero,  and  you  will  see  that  no  cruelty  is  impoj- 
sible  for  him." 

"  Nero  has  no  cause  for  hating  me.  He  has  favored  me 
greatly  until  recently." 

"  Others  have  supplanted  you,"  said  Julius,  impatiently. 
"  You  can  do  nothing.  But  I  lose  time.  Haste.  If  you  wish 
the  safety  of  your  wife,  —  bid  her  prepare ;  if  not,  —  then 
at  least  summon  Lydia." 

Cineas  said  not  a  word.  Labeo  was  the  judge  here.  He 
kn(iw  not  what  to  say,  and  said  nothing.  The  suddenness 
of  the  blow  bewildered  him. 

Then  Julius  implored  Labeo  to  save  his  wife ;  to  send 
her  away,  or  convey  her  away ;  to  do  anything  rather  than 
allow  her  to  remain.  And  Labeo  steadily  refused.  He 
was  still  unable  to  understand  how  any  one  would  dare  to 
arrest  her.     All  his  pride  was  roused.     Never  would  he 


m 


The  Arrest. 


283 


consent  to  tluit  wliicli  aoomod  so  deep  a  disjrrace.  For  it 
seemed  to  liiin  like  {ulditional  in?ult  to  his  present  adverse 
fortunes,  and  he  fought  against  it,  and  determined  to  hold 
out  against  fate. 

Juliu"  therefore,  finding  ail  liis  representations  useless,  in 
Ills  deep  anxiety,  and  in  his  haste,  urged  that  Lydia  might 
1)0  summoned.  This  Labco  readily  granted.  The  young 
maiden  was  informed  of  the  state  of  the  case,  and  Helena, 
who  heard  tlie  news  with  the  most  gloomy  forebodings,  not 
inmiiiiglcd  with  terror,  hurried  her  away,  and  took  leav«;  of 
her  as  though  tliis  were  their  last  meeting  on  earth.  Scarcely 
(11(1  Julius  allow  a  word,  but  in  his  hurry  at  once  set  out.  The 
horse  which  had  carried  him  out  carried  both  back  towards 
their  destination. 

Then  the  two  friends  were  left  to  their  thoughts.  Soon 
Helena  appeared,  pale  and  frightened.  She  flung  herself 
into  her  husband's  arms.  He  folded  her  in  them,  and  held 
her  close  to  his  heart,  and  looked  with  a  tierce  glance  away, 
as  though  in  search  of  some  imaginary  enemy. 

"  There's  no  danger,"  said  he,  "  and  no  fear,  sweet  wife. 
Who  would  dare  to  arrest  you  ?  " 

Helena  shuddered  and  wept. 

"  I  am  such  a  coward,"  she  said,  "  I  cannot  face  danger." 

"  Danger  !  no,  you  are  too  tender  even  to  be  exposed  to 
the  fear  of  it.  And  never  shall  harm  come  to  you  while  I 
live." 

"  Had  I  not  better  fly  ?  "  she  asked,  timidly. 

"  Fly  !  Alas,  where  ?  What  place  is  secure  from  Cassar  ? 
But  why  talk  of  flight  ?  There  is  no  cause.  This  is  a  need- 
less alarm.  There  may  indeed  have  been  danger  for  Lydia, 
but  there  is  none  for  you.  I  have  some  power  yet,  and  in- 
ihience.  I  am  not  a  fallen  man  altogether.  The  Sulpieii 
are  not  so  mean  that  they  have  become  poor  victims  of  n 
tyrant.  No,  no.  Calm  yourself,  dearest.  Look  up,  —  my 
own,  —  the  danger  is  only  a  fancy.  It  was  a  mistake  of 
Julius,  —  a  mistake,  —  that's  all." 


'■^ 


iH 


284 


The  Arrest. 


With  such  words  Labeo  strove  to  calm  his  wife,  y^i,  with 
all  his  indignant  disbelief,  his  heart  was  ill  at  ease.  His 
mind  misgave  him.  For  Christians  of  name  and  station  had 
already  suffered  the  most  cruel  of  deaths,  and  it  was  possible 
that  Helena  might  be  arrested  after  all. 

While  Labeo  tried  to  give  to  Helena  a  confidence  which 
he  himself  did  noi  possess,  Cineas  sat,  pale  and  anxious. 
looking  at  the  floor.  Well  he  knew  the  danger.  He  had 
anticipated  some  such  thing  as  this,  and  he  seemed  to  see 
the  actual  presence  of  that  which  he  feared. 

Now,  while  these  three  were  thus  together  struggling  with 
fear  and  anxiety,  they  became  aware  of  a  sudden  tumult  out- 
side, —  the  tramp  of  horses,  the  rattle  of  arms.  Helena  heard 
it  first.    She  shrieked,  and  clung  more  closely  to  her  husband. 

"  O  my  God  ! "  she  cried,  "  support  me.  I  cannot  support 
myself." 

Labeo  held  her  and  looked  wildly  at  the  door.  The  sounds 
came  nearer.  There  were  voices  at  the  portico,  footsteps 
on  the  pavement,  and,  without  any  summons  or  message,  the 
footsteps  drew  nearer. 

An  officer  entered  the  room,  followed  bv  several  soldiers. 
One  man  accompanied  them  whose  appearance  filled  Labeo 
with  bitterest  rage.     It  was  Hegio. 

He  had  come  to  triumph  in  his  revenge.  Labeo  knew  it. 
And  that  revenge  was  wreaked  through  his  wife.  His  brain 
reeled  in  his  furious  passion. 

The  officer  respectfully  saluted  Labeo  and  apologized  for 
his  presence.  He  hoped  that  he  might  be  forgiven  for  per- 
forming a  painfu]  duty,  and  after  some  long  preamble  of  this 
sort,  he  at  length  t  )ld  the  nature  of  his  errand.  He  had  been 
sent  to  arrest  Helena,  the  wife  of  Labeo,  as  a  Christian,  and 
a  traitor  to  the  state.  Saying  this  he  displayed  the  imperial 
mandate. 

Labeo  looked  at  it  for  a  moment,  and  then  at  the  officer. 

"  This  is  some  cruel  jest  of  the  emperor,"  said  he  at  last 
in  a  hoarse  voice. 


'_'»,' I  'w#r  ("J^-T'^wiBr. 


The  Arrest. 


285 


"  I  hope  it  is  a  jest,"  said  the  ofiicer ;  "  but  I  have  only  one 
course." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  will  arrest  her  ? "  said 
Labco,  holding  his  wife  more  closely  as  she  clung  to  him  in 
her  fright. 

"  What  else  can  I  do  ?  "  said  the  officer,  in  an  embarrassed 
manner.  "You  know  I  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  obey 
orders.     I  must  make  the  arrest." 

"  Never ! "  cried  Labeo,  furiously. 

"  What  ?  " 

«  Never ! " 

"  You  need  not  talk  in  that  way,"  said  the  officer,  trying  to 
find  some  escape  from  the  painfulness  of  the  scene  by  assum- 
ing an  air  of  anger.  "  You  must  yield.  The  emperor  com- 
mands you." 

"  I  will  not,  and  you  may  tell  him  so." 

"  Then  I  must  take  her,"  said  the  officer. 

*'  Do  so  at  your  peiii." 

"  It  will  be  at  your  peril,"  retorted  the  other  whose  wrath 
began  to  be  excited.  "  Why  do  you  interfere  with  me  ?  It 
is  my  duty.  She  can  swear  that  she  is  not  a  Christian,  and 
all  will  be  well.     That  is  all  that  she  has  to  do." 

At  this  Helena  trembled  all  the  more  violently.  Tiie 
eyes  of  Hegio  sparkled.  He  came  up  to  the  officer  and  said 
in  a  low  voice,  — 

"  You  have  said  nothing  about  the  boy." 

"The  boy." 

Labeo  repeated  the  words  mechanically,  and  a  worse  hor- 
ror stole  through  him. 

The  officer  looked  fiercely  at  Hegio. 

"  Who  asked  for  your  interference  ?  "  he  cried.  "  Must 
you  remind  me  of  what  I  would  like  to  forget  ?  "  Then 
turning  to  Labeo,  "  There  is  another,"  i^aid  he  slowly  and 
painfully,  —  "a  boy;  I  must  take  him  too." 

Helena  heard  this.  With  a  shriek  she  tore  herself  away, 
and  rushed  out  of  the  room.     No  one  followed  her.     Labeo 


286 


The  Arrest. 


placed  himself  in  the  door-way,  and  glared  at  the  soldiers 
like  a  madman. 

"  Seize  him !  "  said  the  officer.  "  Let  two  of  you  hold 
him,  and  the  rest  follow  me.     I  must  put  an  end  to  this." 

Two  soldiers  rushed  at  Labeo,  and  seizing  him,  each  one 
held  an  arm,  and  dragged  him  away,  while  the  rest  headed 
by  Hegio  went  in  after  Helena. 

Meanwhile  the  disturbance  and  the  shrieks  of  Hciena  had 
roused  all,  and  the  servants  came  flocking  round  pale  and 
trembling.  Among  them  came  Galdus,  who,  ever  faithful, 
and  occupied  by  one  engrossing  affection,  ran  first  to  the 
chamber  of  Marcus.  There  he  saw  Helena,  fraitic,  and 
clasping  her  son  in  her  arms. 

"  Save  him.  Oh  save  him!"  she  cried,  when  she  saw  Gal- 
dus. "The  soldiers  are  here.  They  are  going  to  arrest 
him." 

At  this  moment  the  tramp  of  men  resounded  over  the 
marble  pavement,  and  as  Galdus  turned  he  saw  them  ad- 
vance, headed  by  Hegio.  He  stood  like  a  lion  at  bay.  His 
gigantic  form  filled  the  door-way.  But  he  was  unarmed, 
and  the  spears  of  the  soldiers  were  pointed  toward  him. 

"  Out  of  the  way  there,"  cried  the  officer. 

For  a  moment  Galdus  hesitated.  The  soldiers  advanced. 
He  could  do  nothing,  and  with  a  sigh  that  seemed  to  rend 
his  frame  he  fell  back  before  them.  There  he  stood  with 
folded  arms  looking  on  the  scene.  He  marked  the  face 
of  Hegio ;  he  recognized  him  as  the  man  for  whom  he  had 
been  bidden  to  watch ;  he  noticed  the  scowl  and  the  triumph 
that  were  on  that  fixce. 

Short  time  was  needed  to  complete  this  work.  Hel- 
ena was  taken,  and  half  fainting  in  her  fear,  with  her  boy 
clinging  to  her,  she  moved  out  among  the  soldiers.  Mar- 
cus looked  frightened  and  bewildered,  understanding  noth- 
ing, and  only  knowing  that  something  terrible  had  oc- 
curred. 

So  they  returned  to  the  hall. 


T-wfjcjm  -n.-«^TT  ■^WJ>"    'f^^ 


m  :« 


'  ! 


T/te  Arrest, 


287 


■v. 


The  officer  turned  to  Labeo. 

"  Be  of  good  courage,"  said  he  in  a  faltering  voice. 
"  There  need  be  no  fear.  She  will  swear  that  she  is  not  a 
Christian.     She  will  come  back." 

Labeo  said  not  a  word.  He  stood,  held  between  two  sol- 
diers staring  fixedly,  his  white  lips  moving,  but  uttering  no 
audible  word,  and  wild  agony  in  his  fixed  eyes.  No,  there 
were  no  words  for  such  a  scene  as  this. 

Then  without  even  allowing  a  farewell  word  the  soldiers 
moved  away  with  their  prisoners.  Those  who  held  Labeo 
waited  till  the  others  had  left  the  house,  and  then  releasinor 
him  they  departed. 

Labeo  stood  motionless.  The  noise  vf  retreating  foot- 
steps was  heard  as  the  party  mounted  and  rode  away ;  he 
stood,  and  heard,  but  made  no  effort  to  follow. 

Cineas  stood  there  too,  overwhelmed,  with  feelings  only 
less  keen  than  those  of  the  stricken  husband  and  father ; 
bewildered  too,  and  incapable  of  action. 

Labeo  stood  like  one  stunned,  staring  wildly,  with  the 
veins  in  his  forehead  swollen  to  bursting,  h  s  teeth  fixed,  his 
hands  clenched,  and  his  eyes  glowing  like  1  re.  There  too 
stood  Cineas  with  his  face  as  white  as  ashes,  v  ud  anguish  in 
his  features. 

They  were  dumb. 

But  the  strong  man  roused  himself  at  last,  and  reason, 
which  had  rested  for  a  moment,  resumed  its  sway.  With  a 
deep  groan  he  looked  around,  and  then  slowly  and  painfully 
left  the  room.  He  walked  out  to  the  portico,  looked  toward 
Rome,  and  listened ;  then  he  walked  back  into  the  hall. 
There  at  one  end  were  fixed  the  images  of  his  ancestors, 
and  beside  one  of  the  busts  was  a  dagger  which  this  one  had 
once  applied  to  his  own  heart,  to  save  the  Sulpicii  from  dis- 
honor. This  Labeo  took.  It  was  well  preserved,  and  glit- 
tering, and  keen. 

Cineas  saw  this.  He  thought  of  only  one  thing,  and  that 
was  that  Labeo  meditated  suicide  like  his  ancestor. 


'm 


i: 


.^' 


288 


The  Arrest. 


"  No,  no,"  he  cried,  coining  toward  his  friend,  in  an  im- 
ploring voice. 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Labeo,  in  hollow  tones.  "  Other  blood 
must  flow  first." 

"Blood!  what  blood?" 

"  I  will  have  vengeance." 

"There  is  hope,"  cried  Cineas,  though  the  word  hope 
seemed  like  mockery  now. 

"  Hope  ! "  said  Labeo,  savagely.  "  Do  you  think  she  will 
abjure  Christ?     You  don't  know  her." 

"  I  will  see  Nero." 

"  Nero,"  interrupted  Labeo.     "  As  well  see  a  tiger." 

"  I  think  I  can  persuade  him." 

"  I  know  something  better  than  persuasion.  Away. 
Though  you  are  the  friend  of  my  soul,  you  are  hateful.  All 
is  hateful.  I  lift  up  my  hands  to  the  gods  and  curse  them. 
I  am  going  to  die,  but  1  will  drag  down  to  the  shades  with 
me  the  miscreant  Nero  !  " 

Brandishing  his  dagger  he  fled  from  the  house.  Soon 
Cineas  heard  the  quick  gallop  of  a  horse. 

But  one  had  preceded  Labeo  from  that  stricken  house- 
hold. One  who  knew  only  one  affection,  and  followed  it 
now  that  it  was  torn  from  him.  One  trained  in  British 
wars,  where  men  rivalled  horses  in  speed,  and  could  run  by 
their  side  for  hours,  —  where  charioteers  could  leap  ou  the 
poles  of  their  chariots,  or  on  the  backs  of  their  horses  when 
in  full  career,  and  cax'ry  on  the  fight.  Like  the  avenger  of 
blood,  he  pursued,  and  he  had  marked  out  one  for  vengeance, 
and  that  one  was  Hegio. 

In  his  vengeance  he  could  be  patient  and  tireless.  He 
thought  nothing  of  fatigue,  nothing  of  the  length  of  the  way ; 
he  followed,  and  kept  them  all  in  sight. 

So  at  last  they  entered  Kome,  and  as  they  rode  through 
the  streets,  Galdus  still  pursued. 

And  how  were  the  prisoners  in  that  party  ?  At  first 
Helena  had  been  scarce  conscious  of  surrounding  events, 


«fff«,Vwp..WWY!"P'» 


•"•W^ 


1 1! 


Tke  Arrest. 


289 


but  the  cool  night-air  roused  her  from  her  half  stupor,  and 
she  began  to  know  the  worst.  She  and  Marcus  were  on  the 
same  horse,  between  the  officer  and  Hegio.  As  she  began 
to  realize  the  worst  horrors  of  her  situation,  those  horrors 
grew  more  endurable,  and  she  felt  greater  strength  and 
calm.  She  pressed  Marcus  more  closely  to  her  heart,  and 
bending  over  him  wept  profusely.  Her  tears  relieved  her. 
But  those  tears  which  fell  upon  the  face  of  Marcus  awak- 
ened sympathy  in  his  loving,  childish  nature.  How  bold  and 
brave  he  really  was  he  had  already  shown.  He  had  already 
confronted  a  death  by  fire,  and  faced  it  down.  He  was  the 
same  now,  and  his  high  spirit  did  not  falter.  For  he  was 
one  of  those  who  are  at  the  same  time  keenly  susceptible 
to  the  sufferings  of  others,  but  courageous  and  indomita- 
ble in  their  own  hearts.  Sensitive  and  brave,  with  the 
delicacy  of  a  girl,  but  the  nerves  and  the  heart  of  a  lion,  — 
such  was  Marcus,  in  whom  his  mother's  tenderness,  and  the 
strong  nature  of  his  father  were  blended.  Such  natures 
are  the  noblest ;  the  meek  in  peace,  —  the  bold  in  war. 

"  Mother,"  said  he,  "  don't  weep,  —  it  breaks  my  heart ; 
don't  weep." 

"  It  is  for  you,  dearest  boy." 

"  For  me  !  Do  you  weep  for  me  ?  And  why  ?  I  am 
not  afraid.  I  can  show  that  I  am  my  father's  son.  He 
will  learn  at  last  how  boldly  I  can  die.'* 

"  I  will  comfort  you,"  said  he,  after  a  pause.  "  I  wish  I 
were  older ;  I  am  only  ten  years  old,  but  I  am  not  a  coward. 
I  am  a  Roman  boy,  and  my  father's  boy,  and  I  am  not 
afraid.     I  can  die,  and  die  bravely." 

Many  such  words  did  Marcus  utter.  He  in  his  lofty 
courage  sought  to  soothe  his  mother.  He  had  a  strange,  sweet 
air  of  superiority,  as  though  he  recognized  in  himself  a 
stronger  and  a  superior  nature,  and  his  mother  also  drew 
encouragement  from  that  unfaltering  courage,  that  splendid 
"  pluck "  of  the  little  boy.  Religion  came  also  with  it3 
comforts.     She  thought  of  Him  who  had  died  for  her ;  she 


290 


The  Arrest. 


reproached  herself  for  her  weakness.  New  strength  came 
to  her  heart,  and  at  last  the  prospect  of  the  stake  grew  less 
terrible,  being  eclipsed  by  the  splendor  of  that  heaven  that 
lay  beyond. 

At  length  they  entered  the  city.  The  burnt  parts  were 
not  yet  rebuilt.  The  party  went  on  through  a  v/ide  waste 
of  ruined  houses.  In  some  places  there  were  rough  huts 
erected  where  people  were  living ;  in  other?,  the  walls  of 
new  buildings  were  rising.  It  was  quite  dark  and  few  p  'o- 
ple  were  in  the  streets.  After  some  time  they  came  to  the 
Suburra,  which  had  all  been  rebuilt,  and  showed  something 
like  its  former  busy  and  varied  scene.  Down  this  they 
went  for  a  short  distance,  and  at  length  turned  off  through  a 
side  street. 

At  length  they  stopped  before  a  large  edifice  which  still 
bore  ti'aces  of  fire  in  its  ruined  walls.     It  was  the  prison. 

"  This  is  not  the  place,"  said  Hegio  to  the  officei*.  "  Their 
quarters  are  in  the  house  of  Padentatus  in  the  Campus 
Martins.     I  will  lead  on  to  show  the  way." 

The  officer  said  nothing.  Hegio  then  rode  forward,  and, 
putting  himself  at  the  head  of  the  party,  went  at  the  usual 
pace  through  many  streets. 

At  last  they  came  to  a  wide,  open  space.  It  was  the 
Campus  Martins.  They  rode  along  the  street  that  bordered 
it,  and  finally  came  to  a  house  that  stood  on  the  side  of  this 
street.  It  was  alone  by  itself.  The  houses  near  it  had  not 
yet  been  rebuilt.  This  was  an  old  edifice  of  massive  con- 
struction which  had  suffered  but  little  from  the  fire,  and  had 
been  repaired.  Here  the  party  stopped.  They  all  dis- 
mounted. No  inhabited  house  was  near  ;  the  building  stood 
by  itself.  The  officer,  who  seemed  sullen  and  impatient, 
hurried  his  men  to  the  completion  of  their  task.  Two  sol- 
diers remained  behind  with  Hegio,  and  the  officer  rode  on 
with  the  rest. 

Then  the  door  was  unfastened,  lights  were  procured,  and 
Hegio  and  the  soldiers  took  their  prisoners  inside. 


"    r .         Tm\n;"-r.rr-  TnWT^ 


The  Arrest. 

291 

.ita;.'™^  "•'^''''  ''""'^  <■"-"■' -""'^^  -is  ,.„„e,a„<, 
He  knew  „„t  ,hat  the  avenger  was  on  his  track. 


XXVII. 

THE  AVENGER. 

O  Hegio  rode  off,  not  knowing  that  one  was  on  his 
track  who  would  demand  for  all  this  a  terrible 
reckoning. 

He  rode  off  slowly  and  leisurely.  His  horse  and 
he  were  both  fatigued  from  the  long  ride  and  the 
excitement. 

He  wished  also  to  ride  slowly,  so  as  to  luxuriate  in 
the  thought  of  his  perfect  revenge.  Much  had  been  done, 
more  remained,  —  the  punishment  due  to  Christians,  —  the 
Vatican  gardens.     The  thought  was  sweet  to  a  soul  like 

his. 

He  thought  of  other  things.  That  officer  had  scorned 
him,  and  treated  him  with  insult.  He  had  also  hesitated  in 
his  duty.  This  should  be  punished.  Labeo  should  also  fall, 
—  and  Cineas,  —  and  all  his  enemies. 

He  let  the  bridle  fall  carelessly  as  he  rode  along,  —  lost  in 
thoughts  that  were  so  pleasing  to  him,  —  and  in  this  frame 
of  mind  he  went  at  the  same  pace  through  the  city. 

At  last  he  approached  the  Esquiline  hill.  Here  was  the 
favorite  residence  of  Tigellinus,  and  to  this  Hegio  was  bound. 
The  broad,  open  space,  which  had  been  made  to  arrest  the 
flames  still  remained,  covered  with  the  debris  of  the  ruined' 
houses.     All  was  dark  there. 

Hegio  rode  along. 

Suddenly  a  dark  form  rushed  past  him  through  the  gloom, 
and  before  he  could  put  spurs  to  his  horse,  before  he  could 
even  think,  a  mighty  grasp  had  clutched  him  by  the  throat 
(292) 


The  Avenger. 


293 


and  dragp;ed  him  down  from  his  horse.     The  animul  bounded 
forward  in  terror,  and  rushed  off  like  the  wind. 

Bruised  by  his  fall,  half-suffocated  by  the  grasp  of  his  un- 
known assailant,  Hegio  lay  on  the  ground  ;  but  bruises  and 
suffocation  were  forgotten  in  the  deadly  fear  that  rushed 
tluough  his  soul;  for  he  had  the  most  craven  spirit  that 
ever  animated  a  human  form.  He  was  one  of  those  who 
can  die  from  fright,  and  now  all  his  strength  ebbed  away  in 
a  paralysis  of  fear. 

He  tried  to  gasp  oiit  words  of  entreaty,  but  in  vain. 

One  hand  was  on  his  throat,  another  fumbled  at  his  waist, 
and  loosened  the  rich  girdle  that  encircled  it.  For  a  moment 
the  grasp  on  his  throat  was  relaxed. 

"  Spare  me,"  cried  Hegio,  as  he  found  breath.  "  I'll  give 
you  gold  if  you  want  it.  I  am  an  imperial  officer.  Beware 
how  you  harm  me.  You  will  suffer  for  it.  I  will  pay  any- 
thing, —  name  your  price." 

The  only  answer  was  a  tight  bandage  forced  over  his 
mouth  and  into  it,  like  a  gag,  from  his  gii'dle,  which  his  as- 
sailant had  twisted  into  shape,  and  now  fii'mly  bound  around 
him,  so  that  it  effectually  prevented  him  from  making  any 
sound. 

Then,  turning  him  over  on  his  face,  the  unknown  assailant 
sat  on  his  shoulders,  and  seizing  his  arms  forced  them  be- 
hind him,  and  taking  his  own  girdle  pinioned  them  in  that 
place  tightly.  Hegio  felt  like  a  child  in  the  grasp  of  his 
enemy. 

Then  the  assailant  rose,  and,  holding  Hegio  firmly,  bade 
him  rise  also.  Without  a  word  he  pushed  him  along  before 
him.  Hegio  saw  with  a  feeling  of  relief  that  they  went  to- 
ward the  Esquiline ;  but  fear  came  over  him,  and  dread  sus- 
picion, as  he  saw  that  he  was  forced  toward  the  ruins  of 
Labeo's  house.  *  ^ 

Those  ruins  yet  remained.     The  walls  had  fallen  in  most 
parts  ;  but  on  one  side  about  half  the  height  still  stood  erect. 
To  this  shadowy  form  where  the  dark  wall  arose  Hegio  felt 
25  « 


:,;i 


294 


The  Avegner, 


himself  impelled,  and,  incapable  of  speech  or  resistance,  he 
walked  on. 

At  last  they  stopped  before  an  Opening  which  led  into  the 
vaults  beneath  the  house.  All  was  intensely  dark.  For  a 
moment  he  struggled,  and  tried  to  hold  back,  but  the  force 
of  his  captor  was  too  great.  He  had  to  descend.  The  steps 
were  still  covered  with  beams  and  ashes.  Down  these  the 
wretched  prisoner  was  forced,  and  his  captor  followed.  At 
last  they  reached  the  bottom. 

Then  Hegio  felt  himself  dragged  along  some  distance  in 
the  intense  darkness.  His  fear  was  greater  than  ever.  In 
that  moment  he  tasted  of  the  bitterness  of  death. 

Then  Hegio  was  commanded  to  lie  down.  He  started 
back  and  refused.  In  an  instant  he  was  thrown  down  vio- 
lently, and  his  captor  again  held  him  down. 

"  I  am  going  to  take  away  your  gag,"  said  a  stern  and 
awful  voice,  in  a  rude,  foreign  accent,  which  was  unknown 
to  Hegio.  "  But  I  hold  a  dagger  at  your  heart,  and  if  you 
utter  one  cry,  you  die.     Answer  me  and  say  nothing  more." 

Tiie  gag  was  then  removed. 

"  Spare  me,"  gasped  Hegio.     "  If  you  want  gold  "  — 

"  Peace,  fool,  or  you  die.  Answer  my  questions,"  said 
the  deep,  stern  voice. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  The  lady  and  the  boy." 

At  that  word  a  cry  was  heard  in  the  darkness  of  the 
vault. 

Hegio  started,  and  screamed. 

But  the  gripe  of  his  assailant  still  held  his  throat. 

"  Fool !  if  you  scream  again  you  die,"  cried  his  enemy, 
and,  holding  more  tightly,  he  tried  to  peer  through  the  gloom. 
"  Whoever  comes  near  dies,"  he  cried. 

"  Who  is  here  ?  "  said  a  voice,  whose  tones  were  familiar 
indeed  to  Hegio  and  Galdus. 

Galdus  uttered  a  cry  of  joy.  Hegio  fell  into  a  new  agony 
of  fear. 


T 


The  Avenger. 


295 


"  Master !  Friend !  Lubeo !  "  cried  Gtvldus.  —  "  We  have 
bim  here.     I  know  where  they  are.     All  is  not  lost." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  said  Labeo,  in  an  awful  voice. 
"  Will  you  dare  to  tell  me  to  hope  ?  " 

"  I  tell  you ;  we  can  save  them  yet.  I  followed  them,  and 
saw  all." 

"  Where  are  you,  ray  saviour  and  my  friend  ?  "  cried  La- 
beo, whose  voice  was  broken  by  emotion. 

"  Here,  by  the  door  of  the  wine  vault.  Here  ;  come  here ; 
come  to  me  and  share  my  joy,  for  I  have  caught  him." 

"  Caught  who  ?  "  said  Labeo,  in  bewilderment,  coming  up 
and  touching  the  shoulder  of  Galdus.  "  Who  is  it  that  you 
have  brought  here  ?  " 

«  Hegio." 

At  this  Hegio  uttered  a  shriek. 

"  Peace,  dog !  —  must  I  strike  you  to  the  heart  ?  "  said 
Galdus,  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"  Have  you  caught  that  viper  ? "  said  Labeo,  scornfully. 
"He  is  yours.  Do  as  you  like.  I  care  nothing.  But,  O 
my  noble  friend,  —  saviour  of  my  son,  —  come,  let  us  haste ; 
if  you  know  where  they  are,  let  us  save  them  now  or  die  ; 
let  us  lose  no  time." 

"  Wait  a  moment.  I  must  ask  the  dog  something,"  said 
Galdus.  • 

"  Answer  me,"  he  cried,  imperiously,  turning  to  Hegio. 

"  Speak,"  gasped  Hegio. 

"  Will  you  deliver  back  the  lady  and  the  boy  in  safety,  for 
your  life  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  cried  Hegio,  eagerly ;  "  only  let  me  go,  and  I 
swear  that  before  midnight "  — 

"  Fool,  —  that  is  not  what  I  asked.  Let  you  go !  No, 
no, —  not  till  the  lady  and  boy  stand  free  before  us." 

Hegio  groaned. 

"  Give  us  a  mandate  to  the  guard  to  let  them  go,  and  if 
they  are  delivered  to  us  we  will  come  back  and  free  you." 

Hegio  groaned.  -    ' 


296 


The  Avenger. 


"  They  will  not  obey  a  mandate  from  me.  But  only  let 
me  see  Tigellinus." 

"  Never.  You  go  not  hence  till  they  are  free.  Will  not 
your  oi'der  free  them  ? " 

"  No.  They  are  imperial  prisoners.  Only  the  order  of 
Tigellinus  or  Nero  can  free  them." 

"  What  can  you  do,  then  ?  " 

"  Let  me  see  Tigellinus,  and  I  can  persuade  him." 

"It  is  a  waste  of  words,"  cried  Labeo.  "  lie  speaks 
truly;  he  has  no  power.  He  is  no  better  than  a  slave. 
Leave  him  and  let  us  haste  away." 

"  Tell  me  this  much,"  said  Galdus.  "  How  many  guards 
are  there  in  that  house  ?  " 

"  What  house  ?  " 

"  Answer  me  and  don't  ask  questions,  —  the  house  where 
they  are  imprisoned." 

«  Only  two." 

"  The  two  that  were  left  ?  are  there  no  others  ?  " 

"  None." 

"  If  I  find  you  have  deceived  me,  it  will  be  worse  for  you." 

"  It  is  true,"  groaned  Hegio,  "  there  are  only  two." 

"  Away,  then,"  cried  Labeo.  "  We  lose  time  with  this 
wretch.     Haste." 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  said  Galdus. 

He  gagged  Hegio  once  more.  Then  he  bound  his  feet 
tightly  in  a  position  which  left  him  utterly  incapable  of 
motion.  Then,  lifting  him  in  his  arms  with  the  air  of  one 
who  was  perfectly  familiar  with  the  place  even  amid  the 
gloouj,  he  walked  on  into  a  place  farther  away  from  the 
entrance.  It  was  the  wine  vault.  The  door  had  been 
broken  from  its  hinges  and  lay  on  the  floor.  Galdus  lifted 
it  into  its  place,  and  secured  the  chain,  which  yet  remained 
there,  by  a  bolt,  so  that  it  made  the  place  a  safe  prison  even 
if  Hegio  should  be  able  to  remove  his  bonds. 

All  this  took  but  a  short  time.  Then  Galdus  and  Labeo 
hurried  away.     Galdus  led  the  way. 


I<1     1 


III..  1 


The  Avenger. 


297 


"Are  you  armed?"  said  he  as  they  emerged  from  the 
vault. 

Labco  showed  him  liis  dagger. 

«  That  is  well.     W(!  will  need  it." 

And  then  tliey  went  at  a  rapid  pace  toward  the  Campus 
Martius. 

At  last  they  arrived  at  the  house.  Two  guards  stood  at 
the  door,  and  the  moon,  which  was  just  rising,  illumined  the 
scene.  Galdus  did  not  know  whether  these  were  the  same 
guards  that  had  first  been  put  tliere,  or  whether  they  had 
been  relieved.     But  he  cared  not. 

When  these  two  men  saw  the  new  comers  they  rose  and 
asked  them  what  they  wanted. 

"  I  am  Sulpicius  Labeo,  of  the  Praetorian  guard,  and  I 
have  come  for  the  prisoners  who  are  here." 

"  Your  warrant,"  said  the  guard. 

"  Here  it  is ! "  said  Galdus,  and  struck  his  dagger  to  his 
heart. 

Labeo  caught  the  other  in  his  arms  and  held  him  firmly. 

"  Don't  say  a  word,  or  you  die  !  "  he  said  sternly. 

The  man  was  silent. 

By  this  time  Galdus  had  raised  his  hand  to  strike  another 
blow. 

"  Stop,  stop,"  said  Labeo.    "  Don't  strike.    Bind  his  hands." 

Galdus  did  so. 

"  Where  are  the  prisoners  ?     Tell,  or  you  die." 

"  I  will  not  tell  unless  you  promise  me  my  life,"  said  the 
man. 

"  Fool !  We  can  easily  find  them.  But  I  don't  want 
your  life.     Take  the  keys  and  lead  us  to  them." 

"  My  hands  are  bound,"  said  the  guard.  "  The  keys  are 
at  my  waist.     Take  them,  and  I  will  lead  the  way." 

He  entered  the  house.  Galdus  took  the  lamp.  After  a 
few  paces  the  guard  stopped  before  a  door. 

With  a  trembling  hand  Labeo  unlocked  it.  He  took  the 
light,  and  Galdus  remained  guarding  the  soldier. 


298 


The  Avenger. 


All  was  atill  as  Labeo  entered.  But  there  was  a  sight 
which  made;  hi-s  aching  heart  beat  fast  with  joy.  Tiicre  ou 
the  floor,  on  a  pile  of  straw,  lay  the  gentle,  the  refined  lady, 
and  the  beautiful  boy  nestled  in  her  arms.  His  wife  and 
son,  lost  but  found  again,  not  panic-struck,  not  despairing, 
but  in  a  calm  sleep. 

Labeo  stooped  down  and  kissed  them,  and  hot  tears  fell 
on  the  face  of  his  wife.     She  started  and  screamed. . 

Labeo  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"  You  are  saved  !     Haste !     Fly !  " 

"  O  my  God  !  Thou  hast  heard  my  prayer !  "  cried  Hel- 
ena as  she  clung  to  her  husband  and  rose. 

"  Hush !     Haste ! "  cried  Labeo. 

He  caught  up  his  son,  who  waked  and  found  himself  in 
the  arms  of  his  father.  But  there  was  no  time  for  words. 
A  few  broken  exclamations  of  wonder,  and  joy,  and  love,  — 
that  was  all.  Labeo  hurried  out,  carrying  his  boy,  and  fol- 
lowed by  his  wife. 

"  Lock  that  guard  in  the  room,  and  come,"  said  he. 

Galdus  looked  surprised.     That  was  not  his  way  of  doing 
things.     But  he  uttered  no  remonstrance.     His  joy  at  their 
success  made  him  merciful,  so  he  pushed  the  soldier  in,  and 
fastened  the  door  from  the  outside. 
-     Then  they  all  hurried  off'. 

The  nearest  gate  was  some  distance  away,  and  to  this 
they  directed  their  steps. 

"  Where  are  we  going  ?  "  said  Galdus. 

"  To  the  catacombs." 

On  their  way  they  met  no  one.  That  way  lay  for  the 
most  part  through  a  burnt  district  which  had  not  been  rebuilt. 
All  was  silence  and  desolation. 

Soon  Helena  complained  of  weakness.  The  fatigue  and  the 
excitement  botli  of  grief  and  joy  had  been  too  much  for  her. 

Then  Labeo  gave  Marcus  into  the  arms  of  the  Briton, 
and,  taking  Helena  in  his  own  arms,  they  walked  along  as 
before. 


TAe  Avenger. 


299 


Soon  they  came  to  the  gate,  and  the  guards  offered  no  re- 
sistance. They  passed  through  into  one  of  the  roads  or 
streets  outside,  and,  turning  to  the  right,  went  along  a  side 
road  till  they  came  to  the  Appian  Way.  Then  along  this 
road  they  passed  till  at  last  they  came  to  the  place  at  which 
the  Christians  entered  the  catacombs.  Cineas  had  once 
pointed  this  out  to  Labeo,  and  the  latter  remembered  it  well. 

A  man  was  standing  at  a  little  distance,  and  as  they  came 
up  he  advanced  and  looked  at  them.  In  the  moonlight  they 
could  see  that  he  was  a  fossor. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  he  asked  mildly. 

"  One  of  us  is  a  Christian,"  said  Labeo,  who  rightly 
thought  that  this  man  was  a  kind  of  scout  for  the  fugitives 
below. 

"  We  seek  safety,"  said  Labeo.  "  Can  you  show  us  the 
way  ?     Take  me  to  Julius.     Do  you  know  him  ?  " 

Without  a  word  the  man  went  down  and  the  rest  fol- 
lowed. At  the  bottom  he  lighted  a  torch,  and  went  along  the 
winding  paths  for  some  distance.  At  last  he  came  to  a  place 
where  two  or  three  men  were  asleep.    One  of  these  he  awaked. 

It  was  Julius. 

He  looked  up  with  a  bewildered  air. 

"  Labeo  !  What,  you  have  brought  her  here,  after  all. 
Thank  God." 

"  Can  you  find  a  place  where  she  can  rest  ?  "  asked  Labeo. 

Julius  at  once  arose,  and  led  the  way.  But  here  Galdus 
asked  the  fossor  to  lead  him  out  again,  as  he  wished  to  do 
something  in  the  city,  which  he  had  to  attend  to.  Julius 
took  Marcus  from  him,  and  Galdus  departed.  Labeo  scarce 
thought  of  his  departure,  just  then,  in  his  eagerness  to  get  a 
place  of  rest  for  his  wife.  He  thought  of  it  afterward,  how- 
ever. 

Julius  took  them  to  a  place  where  Lydia  was,  and  then 
the  young  girl  was  awakened,  and  in  her  joy  at  Helena's 
safety  could  scarce  find  words.  For  she  had  heard  from 
Julius  the  great  danger  that  impended. 


300 


The  Avenger. 


Soon  a  place  was  found  where  Helena  could  rest.  Weary 
artd  worn  out  she  soon  sank  into  sleep,  and  Marcus  slept 
with  her. 

Then  Labeo  told  Julius  all. 

"  And  have  you,  indeed,  gone  through  all  this  since  I  saw 
you  last  ?  "  said  he.  "  But  how  did  you  and  Galdus  happen 
to  meet  at  that  same  place  ?  " 

"  I,"  said  Labeo,  "  had  gone  to  find  the  emperor,  and  ask 
safety  for  my  wife  and  son.  If  he  had  refused  I  would  have 
stabbed  him,  and  then  myself.  It  was  the  thought  of  ven- 
geance that  sustained  me.  Galdus  had  his  own  plans,  and 
coula  have  delivered  them  without  me,  and  would  have  done 
so ;  but  I  don't  know  where  he  could  have  concealed  them ; 
perhaps  in  the  vaults.  Yes,  that  must  have  been  his  inten- 
tion." 

"  And  where  is  Galdus  now  ?  " 

Labeo  started. 

"  He  is  gone !  Ah,  Hegio !  I  see  your  fate  in  this ! 
Yes,  the  Briton  will  not  be  cheated  of  his  vengeance." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Galdus  left  at  once  when  we  first  arrived.  He  can  only 
have  one  purpose,  to  have  his  revenge  on  Hegio." 

Julius  said  nothing.  What  that  revenge  was  to  be,  they 
could  not  form  an  idea.     The  barbarian  had  his  own  ways. 

Labeo  could  not  sleep ;  but  it  was  not  sorrow  that  made 
him  wakeful.  The  revulsion  from  despair  to  hope  was 
great.  In  the  thought  of  present  safety  he  lost  sight  of  the 
I'jture.  The  gloom,  the  damp,  and  the  rough  rocks  that 
surrounded  him  were  all  forgotten.  One  great  joy  filled  his 
soul,  and  that  was  that  he  had  rescued  his  wife  and  boy. 

When  Galdus  left  the  catacombs  he  walked  rapidly  back 
to^vard  the  city.  It  was  now  not  more  than  three  hours 
past  midnight,  and  the  moon  shone  brightly. 

In  his  pursuit  during  the  previous  part  of  the  night  he  had 
meditated  many  things. 

IJe  knew  that  to  which  Hegio  had  doomed  the  boy  and 


'i^-l 


"Tpre- 


The  Avenger. 


301 


his  mother,  —  doatli,  —  a  death  by  fire.  Fire  had  formed  a 
conspicuous  part  in  tlie  acts  of  Hegio.  Galdus  yet  bore  the 
Bears  of  flames  kindled  by  him.  This  was  the  second  time 
that  he  had  saved  Marcus  fi'om  that  fate. 

He  had  thought  over  all  this  in  his  pursuit.  He  had  fed 
his  fierce  barbaric  soul  with  this  one  hope.  He  had  planned 
all  1  is  course,  and  knew  how  it  should  be  decided. 

He  entered  the  city  and  reached  the  Esquiline,  and  the 
ruins  of  Labeo's  house  at  last  rose  before  him,  —  a  reminder 
of  what  he  had  suffered,  a  goad  to  his  vengeful  passion. 

The  vaults  were  dark  and  silent.  He  feared  that  he 
might  be  robbed  of  his  prey.  If  that  iron  hand  of  his  could 
have  trembled,  then  it  would  have  done  so  as  in  his  impa- 
tience he  felt  the  fastenings  of  the  door  of  the  dungeon. 

They  had  been  untouched. 

He  tore  open  the  door  —  he  sprang  in.  There  lay  his  vic- 
tim yet.     He  dragged  him  out  into  the  outer  vault, 

Hegio  could  say  nothing  and  do  nothing.  It  was  as  well. 
The  nature  of  Galdus  was  inexorable. 

He  unbound  the  arms  of  Hegio  and  drew  off  his  outer 
robe  and  his  costume.  These  had  the  decorations  which  in- 
dicated a  servant  of  the  imperial  household.  These  Gildus 
laid  aside.  Then,  taking  off  his  own  tunic,  he  put  it  on 
Hegio.     After  this  he  dressed  himself  in  Hegio's  clothes. 

Hegio,  while  his  arms  were  free,  made  a  desperate  attempt 
to  unfasten  the  gag,  but  Galdus  sternly  ordered  him  to  de- 
sist, and  displayed  his  dagger. 

Then  he  raised  his  hands  imploringly,  but  to  no  purpose. 
For,  after  Galdus  had  completed  his  dress,  he  pinioned  the 
arms  of  Hegio  once  more. 

Then  he  unbound  his  feet. 

Holding  him  then  by  the  end  of  the  fastening  that  bound 
his  arms,  Galdus  led  him  out  of  the  vaults  and  down  the 
hill,  and  over  the  waste  place,  toward  the  Campus  Mar* 
tius. 

Hegio  made  no  resistance.     He  thought  he  was  being  led 

26 


302 


The  Avenger. 


to  the  prison  in  which  he  had  confined  the  mother  and  child, 
so  as  to  assist  in  some  plan  of  delivery. 

To  his  surprise,  when  they  reached  the  Campus  Marti  us, 
his  captor  kept  straight  on  toward  the  Tiber,  where  the 
bridge  crossed  that  led  to  the  Vatican. 

Crossing  the  bridge,  they  reached  the  entrance  to  the  gar- 
dens. 

Here  they  were  stopped  by  guards. 

"  I  have  brought  a  Christian  arrested  to-night,  and  he  is 
ordered  for  instant  execution." 

At  these  words  Hegio  gave  a  wild  bound  backward.  But 
Galdus  held  him  firmly.  The  soldiers  stepped  forward  and 
seized  the  prisoner. 

"  He  is  to  be  clothed  in  the  tunica  molesta  £uid  burned." 

«  When  ?  " 

"Now." 

"  Who  are  you,  and  what  is  your  authority  ?  " 

"  Here,"  said  Galdus,  showing  a  ring  which  he  had  taken 
from  his  prisoner's  finger.  The  soldiers  looked  at  it,  but  did 
not  seem  to  see  anything  in  it.  But  Galdus's  dress  showed 
that  he  must  be  some  one  in  au'.hority. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  " 

"  Hegio,"  said  Galdus,  "  of  the  imperial  household.  This 
man  is  ordered  for  immediate  execution,  and  I  am  to  stay  to 
see  that  it  is  performed." 

The  soldiers  thought  it  was  all  right.  So  many  Chris- 
tians had  been  brought  there  to  be  burned,  that  it  was  a  very 
common  thing  to  them.  So,  without  further  questioning, 
they  led  Hegio  away,  and  Galdus  followed. 

The  soldiers  took  down  the  name  which  Galdus  gave  as 
that  of  the  prisoner.     It  was  "  Galdus,  a  Briton." 

The  true  Galdus  watched  the  false  Galdus  suffer. 

There  was  no  horror  in  his  mind  at  the  scene.  He  had 
watched  such  sights  before.  He  had  seen  the  hideous  spec- 
tacles which  the  Druids  exhibited,  when  scores  of  hapless 
wretches  were  burned  in  wicker  cages.     He  had  seen  his 


The  Avenger.  oq-i 

own  relatives  suffer  thus.    He  found  no  difficulty  in  looking 
on  an  enemy. 

The  wretched  Hegio  could  say  nothing,  and  do  nothing. 
His  eyes  and  face  expressed  his  agony.  Too  well  he  knew 
what  was  before  him.  Bui  that  agony  only  filled  Galdus 
with  exultation. 

The  victim  was  covered  with  the  usual  coat  of  tar  and 
flax,  and  bound  to  the  stake. 
Then  the  torch  was  applied. 


•i'l 


!  i|. 


XXVIII. 


FREEDOM. 

URTNG  this  time  Cineas  had  been  ignorant  of  every- 
thing. Plunged  in  grief,  and  afflicted  with  the  worst 
apprehensions,  he  dreaded  the  impending  calamities, 
yet  knew  not  how  to  avoid  them.  After  Labeo  had 
left  he  remained,  and  gave  way  to  the  most  gloomy 
fears.  With  folded  arms  he  paced  up  and  down 
restlessly  for  many  hours,  trying  in  vain  to  think  of 
some  way  by  which  he  might  rescue  the  captives. 

At  last,  unable  to  think  of  anything,  and  unable  also  to 
endure  his  misery,  he  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  toward 
Rome.  In  his  despair,  he  resolved  upon  one  step  which  he 
would  not  take  to  save  his  own  life,  but  brought  himself  to 
for  the  sake  of  these  dear  ones.  That  was  to  appeal  to  Ti- 
gellinus. 

It  was  early  morning  when  he  reached  Rome,  and  he 
went  at  once  to  the  house  of  Nero's  favorite.  A  great  crowd 
of  clients  already  beset  the  doors,  waiting  to  pay  their  re- 
spects to  their  patron.  Cineas  made  his  way  through  these, 
and  by  liberal  bribery  induced  the  servants  to  awaken  Tigel- 
linus,  and  convey  to  him  a  request  for  an  interview. 

Perhaps  nothing  could  have  given  greater  joy  to  this  man. 
To  have  Cineas,  the  favorite  of  Nero,  the  intellectual,  —  the 
virtuous,  the  proud  Cineas,  the  man  who  stood  in  a  position 
in  which  he  could  never  be,  —  to  have  such  a  man  coming  to 
him  as  a  suppliant  was  sweet  indeed.  Tigellinus  saw  how 
heavily  the  blow  had  fallen,  since  it  had  crushed  a  man  like 
(304) 


•  II,  '.nf 


Freedo7n. 


305 


thiri.    He  was  eager  to  see  him,  and  hurried  out  to  the  chief 
hall,  into  which  Cineas  had  been  admitted. 

Cineas  gravely  saluted  him.  He  was  very  pale,  but  calm 
and  dignified.  There  was  nothing  of  fear  or  of  servility  in 
the  haughty  Megacleid,  but  a  certain  lofty  demeanor,  which 
was  gall  and  wormwood  to  Tigellinus. 

Cineas  at  once  proceeded  to  business.  After  apologizing 
for  such  an  intrusion,  he  said,  — 

"It  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death.  My  sister  and  her 
child  are  under  arrest.  I  wish  to  save  them,  and  come  to 
you.  No  one  knows  your  power  better  than  I.  State  what 
you  wish  to  be  done,  and  I  will  do  it." 

Tigellinus  lowered  his  eyes  before  the  calm  and  penetrat- 
ing gaze  of  Cineas,  and  refused  to  look  him  in  tlie  ftice. 

"  They  are  prisoners  of  state.  The  law  has  control  over 
them.     What  can  I  do  ? "  he  answered. 

"  You  don't  understand  me,"  said  Cineas.     "  This  is  what 
I  wish.     I  came  here  to  ransom  them  at  any  cost,  no  mat-  * 
ter  what " 

"They  cannot  be  ransomed.  You  must  appeal  to  the 
state,  not  to  me." 

"Their  life  is  worth  more  to  me,"  said  Cineas,  without 
heeding  what  Tigellinus  had  said,  "  than  a  thousand  others. 
Will  you  take  a  thousand  in  exchange  ?  I  will  give  you  for 
them  a  thousand  slaves." 

"  I  have  told  you,"  said  Tigellinus,  "  that  I  can  do  noth- 
They  are  not  in  my  power.     You  must  go  to  Ca)sar." 


mg. 


"  You  will  not  understand  me,"  said  Cineas,  coldly. 
"  Have  I  not  said  that  I  will  ransom  them  at  any  cost  ?  " 
And  he  placed  strong  emphasis  on  these  words.  "I  am 
rich.     Name  your  price.     Whatever  you  ask,  I  will  give." 

The  eyes  of  Tigellinus  sparkled  for  a  moment  with  avari- 
cious longing.     But  he  immediately  replied,  — 

"  You  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying,  I  am  not  their 
»  owner.  They  are  not  slaves.  They  are  prisoners.  If  they 
were  in  my  power,  I  could  not  sell  them.  I  would  try  them 
26* 


k 


.'\\t  Hffl 


3o6 


Freedo7n. 


by  the  laws,  and  if  they  were  innocent,  I  would  let  them  go 
free." 

"  Name  your  price,"  said  Cineas,  with  the  same  disregard 
of  what  the  other  had  said.  "  Name  it.  Will  millions  buy 
them  ?  " 

Tigellinus  looked  for  a  moment  at  Cineas,  and  then  looked 
down.  A  great  struggle  arose  within  him.  Avarice  was 
strong.  Millions  were  not  to  be  so  easily  gained  every  day. 
But  then  there  arose  a  stronger  feeling,  —  hate  ;  and  there 
came  with  it  jealousy  and  revenge,  and  these  all  overmas- 
tered the  other.  It  would  be  worth  millions  to  crush  the 
man  whom  he  so  hated.  Perhaps,  also,  all  those  millions 
might  be  his,  and,  while  revenge  would  be  satiated,  avarice 
also  would  gain  all  that  it  wishe(\ 

With  such  feelings  and  thoughts  as  these,  he  shook  his 
head. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  am  powerless.  This  is  not  a  thing  of 
money,  it  belongs  to  law." 

"  Millions  ! "  said  Cineas,  with  strong  impressiveness. 

"  Enough,"  answered  Tigellinus  rising  and  trying  to  as- 
sume an  appearance  of  dignity.  "  A'ou  know  not  what  you 
are  doing.  You  are  trying  to  violate  law  by  bribing  a  min- 
ister. I  cannot  thus  allow  myself  to  be  insulted  by  dishonor- 
able proposals.  I  have  told  you  that  these  prisoners  are  in 
the  hands  of  the  law.     That  law  must  take  its  course." 

Cineas  said  no  more.  He  understood  pretty  accurately 
the  motives  that  actuated  Tigellinus,  and  saw  that  all  ettbrts 
here  were  worse  than  useless,  since  he  was  exposed  to 
ignominy  without  any  chance  of  succeeding  in  his  wishes. 
So,  without  another  word,  he  withdrew. 

Slowly  and  sadly  he  departed,  thinking  what  might  be 
best  to  be  done.  Could  he  not  use  his  wealth  in  another 
way.  Could  he  not  hire  a  band  of  desperadoes,  and  find  out 
the  place  where  the  prisoners  were  confined,  and  rescue 
them.  The  desperadoes  could  easily  be  found.  Rome  was 
full  of  them.     But  more  than  this  had  to  be  done.     If  he 


Freedom. 


307 


rescued  them,  what  then  ?     Where  could  he  fly  ?     True  there 
were  the  catacombs ;  but  that  seemed  almost  as  bad  as  death. 

Tiien  he  thought  of  Nero.  Might  not  something  he  done 
there  ?  Nero  might  grant  him  this  thing,  —  his  first,  and  only 
request.  It  was  impossible  that  Nero  could  feel  any  interest 
m  this  thing.  It  was  evidently  the  act  of  Tigellinus  alone. 
Nero,  in  his  profound  indifference,  might  grant  him  this,  and 
think  nothing  of  it. 

This  seemed  his  only  resource. 

Then  he  thought  of  Labeo,  and  his  dagger,  and  his  frenzy. 
What  would  be  the  result  of  this  ?  He  had  gone  to  seek 
Nero.  Would  he  find  him  ?  There  would  be  an  appeal  to 
Cicsar  before  his,  and  if  this  first  appeal  failed,  what  then  ? 
Would  Labeo,  in  his  despair,  do  as  he  had  tlireatened,  and 
use  his  dagger  against  the  emperor  ? 

Perplexed  and  disturbed,  he  rode  along,  but  finally  thought 
that  the  shortest  way  to  end  all  doubts  was  to  go  at  once  to 
the  emperor.  He  knew  that  no  time  was  to  be  lost;  the 
necessity  of  the  hour  called  above  all  for  haste. 

He  yielded  to  this  feeling  out  of  pure  despair.  It  might 
be  better,  it  could  not  be  worse.     He  would  go  to  Cajsar. 

Full  of  this  thought  he  rode  toward  the  palace  in  the  Vat- 
ican Gardens.  He  came  to  the  Campus  Martins,  and,  cross- 
ing over  it,  drew  near  to  the  bridge  which  spanned  the  river. 

Now,  as  he  drew  near  to  the  bridge,  his  attention  was  ar- 
rested by  one  who  crossed  it,  and  came  towai'd  him. 

His  figure  was  remarkable.  Clothed  in  the  costume  of 
one  who  belonged  to  the  imperial  household,  he  yet  had  the 
fcatui'es  of  some  northern  barbarian.  His  flaxen  hair,  his 
heavy  beard,  and  moustache,  gave  him  a  wild  and  savage  air. 

There  could  be  no  mistake  in  that  face. 

It  was  Galdus. 

Full  of  amazement  at  this  encounter,  and  at  such  a  trans- 
formation, Cineas  stopped  his  horse  mechanically,  and  stared 
in  wonder  at  the  new-comer.  The  other  advanced  with  a 
Btrange  smile  of  triumph  in  his  face. 


3o8 


Freedom. 


"  GaldiKs  !  "  cried  Ciueas. 

"  Rojoice  ! "  exclaimed  the  other.     "  All  are  saved." 

"  Saved  !  "  responded  Cineas,  and  he  could  say  no  more. 
A  full  tide  of  joy  rushed  through  him, — joy  too  great  for 
utterance.  Yet  that  joy  was  equalled  if  not  surpassed  by 
his  astonishment. 

"  What  is  all  this  ?  IIow  are  they  saved  ?  Is  it  really 
true?  And  what  means  this  dress?  What  are  you  doing 
here  ?     AVhere  are  they  ?  " 

Cinea^!  would  have  poured  forth  a  whole  torrent  of  such 
questions,  if  Galdus  had  not  checked  him. 

"  It  is  dangerous  t(-  stand  talking  here,"  he  said.  "  We 
must  hurry  away  and  that  quickly.  We  have  been  doing 
things  this  night  that  will  send  all  Rome  after  us  to  hunt 
us  up." 

"  The  emperor  ?  "  faltered  Cineas,  thinking  of  Labeo's 
threat. 

"  1  don't  know  anything  about  him.  We  have  had  to  do 
with  men  of  another  sort.  But  haste,  —  come,  —  follow 
me ;  I  will  tell  you  where  they  are,  and  will  tell  you  all." 

Saying  this,  Galdus  hurried  on  with  great  strides,  and 
Cineas  turned  and  followed.  Not  a  word  was  spoken  till 
they  had  left  the  city  gates.     Then  Galdus  told  him  all. 

He  told  him  of  his  own  pursuit,  and  his  capture  of  Hegio ; 
of  his  meeting  with  Labeo,  and  their  rescue  of  the  prisoners. 
Finally,  he  told  him  in  words  of  tei'rible  import,  of  his  ven- 
geance on  Hegio. 

Such  vengeance  made  Cineas  shudder  in  the  midst  of  his 
joy.  He  looked  with  wonder  on  this  man,  whose  affectiou 
made  him  as  tender  as  a  mother  to  Marcus,  but  whose  re- 
venge was  so  fearful  on  an  enemy. 

Where  would  all  this  end  ?  The  deed  had  been  one  of 
no  common  kind.  In  that  rescue  the  majesty  of  the  state 
had  been  violated,  and  to  this  oflfence  there  had  been  added 
a  worse  crime.  ,'  -■ 

With  such  thoughts  they  reached  the  entrance  to  the  cata- 


Freedom. 


309 


combs, — a  place  sufficiently  familiar  to  Cineas,  yet  one  which 
he  shuddered  to  think  of  as  the  retreat  of  Helena  and  Marcus. 

Down  the  descent  they  went,  and  along  the  passage-way, 
and  soon  Cineas  found  those  whom  he  had  given  up  for  lost. 

In  the  joy  of  that  reunion  one  or  two  days  passed,  and  the 
gloom  was  lightened  by  the  thought  of  safety.  But  soon,' 
when  safety  became  familiar,  there  arose  a  deep  sadness  in 
ail.  How  could  such  a  life  be  endured,  and  what  was  that 
life  Avorth  ?  It  might  last  long,  and  such  tender  ones  as 
Helena  and  Marcus  could  have  nothing  before  them  but 
death. 

Cineas  sickened  and  grew  hopeless  among  tiiese  dreary 
shades,  where  the  tombs  of  the  dead  appeared  on  every  side. 

He  grew  desperate.  He  determined  to  risk  his  life  to 
save  those  whom  he  loved.     Why  should  he  not  ? 

Nero  had  always  yielded  to  the  influence  which  he  had 
tims  far  contrived  to  exercise.  Why  should  he  not  try  it 
now  ? 

He  determined  to  do  so. 

On  the  morning  of  the  third  day  he  departed  on  this  pur- 
pose. Nero  had  returned  to  Rome,  and  Cineas  found  him 
in  the  palace  in  the  Vatican. 

He  went  there  boldly,  and  entered  the  presence  of  Caisar 
with  the  air  of  a  privileged  person.  He  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  risk  all  in  this  one  venture. 

As  he  entered  he  saw  that  Tigellinus  was  there  too. 

Nero  had  only  returned  to  Rome  on  that  morning.  Tigel- 
linus had  been  telling  him  a  long  story.  It  was  about  this 
arrest,  and  the  rescue  of  the  prisoners,  and  the  death  of  the 
guard.  The  other  soldier  had  been  found  in  the  morning 
locked  up  in  the  room  in  which  the  prisoners  had  been  con- 
fined. Hegio  had  ako  disappeared  most  mysteriously.  This 
was  what  Tigellinus  had  to  tell.  Nero  looked  enraged  and 
angry. 

As  soon  as  Cineas  entered,  Nero  regarded  him  with  an 
evil  smile. 


>•:! 


v 


3IO 


Freedom, 


Now  Cinons  had  put  on  the  most  radiant  and  joyous  ex- 
pression. IIo  hiul  niadn  up  his  mind  uot  merely  to  dejith, 
but  to  humiliation.  lie  determined  to  stoop  to  any  flattery, 
or  any  sacrilic(5  of  self-respect,  if  by  so  doing  ho  might  influ- 
ence Nero  in  his  favor,  for  the  sake  of  Helena.  This  armed 
'him  at  all  points. 

"  So,"  said  Nero,  dryly.  "  You  are  here  at  last.  Why 
have  you  not  been  here  before  ?  "  ■- 

Cineas  pleaded  delicacy  of  feeling.  Caesar  had  been  in 
danger,  and  had  been  engaged  in  a  work  of  self-preserva- 
tion, and  punishment  of  his  enemies.  He  could  not  think 
of  intruding  such  trifles  as  he  had  to  offer  to  Caesar's  notice 
at  such  a  time.  But  he  had  come  as  soon  as  he  thought 
circumstances  could  warrant  it. 

All  this,  which  was  expressed  with  an  easy  grace,  and  a  del- 
icacy of  flattery  peculiar  to  Cineas  alone,  seemed  very  agree- 
able to  Nero.      Yet  he  still  maintained  a  harsh  demeanor. 

"  Athenian,"  said  he,  in  a  mocking  tone  ;  "  you  who  ad- 
mire Socrates  so  greatly,  do  you  think  you  have  enough 
of  his  philosophy  to  die  like  him  ?  For  to  tell  you  the  truth 
I  am  thinking  very  seriously  of  trying  some  such  experi- 
ment on  you." 

Cineas  smiled  gayly.  "  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  I  think  so. 
But  before  you  try  it,  you  must  let  me  tell  you  the  best  story 
that  ever  either  you  or  I  have  heard  in  our  lives.  It  is  a 
real  one,  too,  and  I  have  but  lately  heard  it." 

Nero  was  charmed  by  his  gay  indifference,  and  his  curi- 
osity was  excited  at  the  idea  of  a  story  ;  for  no  one  loved  a 
Btory  better  than  he,  and  no  one  could  tell  a  story  better 
than  Cineas. 

"  You  glorious  philosopher !  "  he  cried,  changing  his  whole 
manner  into  one  which  was  like  his  old  cordiality.  "  Never 
yet  have  I -met  with  a  man  who  could  hear  such  words  as 
these  from  me." 

"  What  words  ?  "  said  Cineas,  indifferently.  "  Oh,  about 
death.    What  is  death?    I  don't  care  much  about  either 


).f 


Freedom. 


3" 


(loatli  or  lifo.  Doatli,  —  why  death  is  only  a  sort  of  tranai- 
tion  stato,  a  point  of  change  from  one  form  of  life  to  anotlier. 
Poison  me,  or  burn  me  whenever  you  like.  It  is  quite  a 
matter  of  inditlerence  to  me." 

At  this  TigcUinus  stared  in  stupid  and  unfeigned  amaze- 
ment.    Nero  burst  into  an  uncontrollable  fit  of  laughter. 

"  You  are  the  greatest  of  men,"  he  cried.  He  then  em- 
braced Cineas  in  a  sort  of  rapture.  "  There  is  no  one  like 
you.  O  Cineas,  you  will  have  to  teach  me  your  splendid  in- 
difference to  death." 

"  I  can  teach  notliing  to  one  like  you.  When  with  you  I 
do  not  teach, —  I  learn,"  said  Cine.is.  "  Rut  as  you  are  going 
to  kill  me,  I  must  make  haste  and  tell  my  story." 

"  Kill  you !  I  wouldn't  kill  you  for  the  world.  Why, 
man,  you  are  a  wonder  among  men.  But  tell  me  this  story. 
I  long  to  hear  it." 

At  this  moment  Tigellinus  excused  himself  to  Nero,  and 
took  his  departure,  in  deep  disgust.  He  saw  the  triumph  of 
Cineas,  and  he  was  both  puzzled  and  maddened  by  it.  What 
could  he  do,  —  he,  a  vulgar  caterer  to  animal  passion,  —  be- 
side a  man  like  this,  who  jested  at  death,  and  laughed  in  the 
very  face  of  the  fearful  master  of  death  ? 

Then  Cineas  began  his  story.  He  exerted  himself  as  he 
had  never  done  before.  He  knew  the  over-mastering  love 
which  Nero  had  for  a  fine  dramatic  situation,  and  for  scenic 
effect.  So  he  threw  himself  with  his  whole  soul  into  his 
narrative.  And  never  were  his  wit  and  vivid  descriptive 
power  so  conspicuous  as  now.     Nero  listened  with  delight. 

He  began  with  a  description  of  Hegio,  —  his  baseness,  his 
villany,  and  his  attempts  to  ruin  his  master,  which  had 
ended  in  his  own  dismissal. 

Then  he  showed  how  Hegio  had  tried  to  take  vengeance. 
He  told  of  the  burning  of  the  house,  and  the  departure  of 
Labeo  to  the  country. 

Hurrying  over  the  circumstances  of  the  arrest,  he  drew 
Nero's  attention  to  Galdus  as  he  followed  the  horseman. 


* 


312 


Freedom. 


Nero  listened  breathlessly  to  the  story  of  the  avenger  on  the 
track  of  the  criminal ;  lie  heard  how  Galdus  caught  Hegio, 
and  dragged  him  down,  and  bound  him  and  carried  him  away 
to  the  vaults. 

Then  came  the  story  of  the  rescue,  which  was  told  with 
thrilling  effect.  Nero  appeared  chiefly  delighted  with  the 
murder  of  the  guard,  and  burst  forth  into  exclamations  of 
rapture  about  the  Briton. 

But  that  which  afforded  to  him  the  highest  and  most  en- 
thusiastic joy  was  the  final  vengeance  of  Galdus  on  Hegio. 
To  this  he  listened  in  breathitj^n  excitement,  and  questioned 
Cinens  over  and  over  again. 

The  change  of  the  clothes  and  the  substitution  of  one  for 
the  other  seemed  admirable  to  him. 

"  Oh,"  he  cried,  "  if  Tigellinus  had  only  heard  this !  He 
does  not  know  it.  He  brought  me  a  stupid  and  clumsy  ver- 
sion of  this  unparalleled  narrative.  His  story  was,  in  every 
respect,  common-place.  This  is  divine.  He  hac  not  heard 
the  best  part.  It  is  worthy  of  Sophocles.  It  would  make 
the  plot  of  a  tragedy  better  than  any  that  I  have  ever  met 
with.  And  it  shall  make  one.  I  myself  will  write  it.  I 
will  make  this  story  known  to  the  world.  I  will  make  this 
glorious  Briton  immortal. 

"  But  where  is  he  ?  "  he  cried.  "  Why  did  you  not  bring 
him  ?  I  must  have  him  here  and  study  him.  He  is  a  living 
demi-god.     Bring  him  here  at  once." 

Cineas  explained  that  ^hey  were  all  fugitives. 

"  Fugitives !  Why  che  play  has  ended.  Let  them  go 
home.  All  of  them.  I  must  bave  this  Briton,  and  he  shall 
tell  me  himself  how  he  felt  and  acted  when  he  watched  the 
flames.  Send  them  all  home.  I  will  give  you  leave.  I  will 
write  a  pardon  for  them  all.  They  have  pf^ormed  parts  in 
a  narrative  which  excels  all  that  ever  I  heard. 

And  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment  Nero  wrote  out  a  for- 
nml  pardon,  and  thrust  it  into  the  hand  of  Cineas, 

*  Bring  that  Briton  to  me,"  said  he.    "  I  imust  see  liim.    I 


''■If 


Freedom. 


313 


must  see  my  Roman  again,  too.  I  had  nothing  to  do  with 
tliis.  It  was  all  Tigellinus.  But  it  has  turned  out  well.  It 
lias  been  so  admirably  managed.  We  must  go  to  work  at 
that  tragedy,  Cineas.  You  shall  advise.  I  will  have  the 
benefit  of  your  taste. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  come.  I  am  tired  of  these  Chris- 
tians. They  are  stupid.  There  is  no  moi'e  pleasure  to  be 
had  out  of  them.  I  will  go  back  again  with  new  delight  to 
iuy  art  and  my  poetry.  We  will  renew  the  happy  hours 
which  we  used  to  pass  in  these  high  pursuits." 

So  Nero  spoke,  saying  much  more  of  a  similar  import,  all 
of  which  showed  that  the  literary  taste,  which  had  lain  dor- 
mant for  a  time,  had  revived  in  its  old  strength.  Cineas  en- 
tered with  apparent  ardor  into  all  the  plans  which  Nero  pro- 
posed. He  consented  to  anything  and  everything.  He 
hold  in  his  hand  the  precious  document  which  gave  life  and 
hberty  to  his  friends.  That  was  all  that  he  wished. 
27 


r:f 


M 


XXIX. 


CHANGES. 

HEY  had  passed  three  days  in  the  catacombs.  How 
sweet  and  fair  seemed  the  face  of  nature  as  they 
emerged  and  saw  again  the  glad  and  glorious  sun- 
light, the  green  foliage,  the  rich  vegetation,  and  the 
abodes  of  man.  That  life  under  ground  had  a 
double  horror ;  it  was  in  darkness,  and  it  was 
among  the  dead.  It  was  the  valley  of  the  shadow 
Alas !  that  shadow  had  passed  over  their  souls. 
There  was  a  great  change  in  Marcus.  His  sensitive  and 
impressible  nature  had  received  a  shock  which  promised  to 
be  more  than  temporary.  A  profound  melancholy,  which 
seemed  strange  and  unnatui'al  in  a  boy,  had  been  forced  upon 
him.  The  horror  of  that  darkness  had  impressed  itself  upon 
his  soul. 

They  entered  again  upon  their  old  life  at  the  villa ;  but 
that  life,  such  as  it  once  was,  could  not  return  again.  It  was 
not  easy  to  obliterate  the  past.  All  the  house  was  filled  with 
recollections  of  that  night  of  agony,  when  Helena  clung  to 
Lalx'o,  and  Marcus  clung  to  Helena,  and  the  father,  in  his 
anguish,  looked  upon  the  retreating  forms  of  those  loved 
ones,  lost,  as  he  thought,  forever.  Helena  could  not  forget. 
She  had  brought  Lydia  back  with  her,  —  a  pale,  meditative 
girl,  whose  life  there  had  changed  her  nature,  and  whose 
new  terror  had  filled  with  a  settled  melancholy.  They  were 
all  safe  now,  at  least  for  the  present ;  but  that  great  danger 
(314) 


Changes. 


315 


which  they  had  endured  seemed  to  make  all  life  less  sweet, 
and  they  lived  and  spoke  as  though  it  might  come  again. 

Gaidus  again  united  himself  to  tha.;  boy  whom  he  had 
twice  snatched  from  death ;  but  the  boy  was  changed.  No 
longer  did  the  halls  resound  with  his  merry  laugh.  He  had 
known  grief,  and  had  lived  years.  He  was  pensive  and  si- 
lent. Formerly  he  communicated  to  Gaidus  all  his  feelings, 
his  hopes,  his  fears,  his  joys,  his  sorrows ;  but  now  he  had 
known  a  deeper  experience,  aad  those  feelings  which  he  had 
had  became  too  strong  for  utterance. 

Gaidus  never  spoke  of  Hegio  to  Marcus.  He  knew  the 
boy's  nature,  and  his  abhorrence  of  strife  and  blood.  To 
tell  him  of  his  vengeance  would  fill  that  boy  with  horror. 
Gaidus  felt  this  in  his  own  dull  way,  and  was  silent  about  it 
with  Marcus. 

But  there  was  one  to  whom  he  had  an  opportunity  of  tell- 
ing his  story,  and  that  was  Nero.  CLieas  was  often  re- 
minded of  it  by  Csesar,  who  urged  him  tc  bring  the  Briton 
to  him.  At  length  he  complied.  Nero  gazed  with  admira- 
tion upon  the  gigantic  frame  of  his  visitor,  and  read  in  his 
stern,  resolute  face  a  power  which  he  saw  in  few  around 
him.  Gaidus  was  not  all  a  savage.  His  own  turn  of  mind, 
which  was  elevated,  had  gained  new  development  from  long 
association  with  Marcus,  and  there  was  some  degree  of  intel- 
lectual refinement  in  his  bold,  barbaric  face,  which  inspired 
respect  and  admiration. 

Called  on  to  give  an  account  of  his  doings  to  Nero,  Gaidus 
told  the  whole  story.  His  narrative  had  not  that  elegance 
which  had  characterized  the  story  of  Cineas,  nor  was  it  so 
skilfully  arranged,  or  so  well  brought  out  in  its  strong  points; 
but,  after  all,  the  effect  was  at  least  equal. 

For  here  stood  the  man  himself,  and  he  acted  it  out.  As  he 
proceeded  in  his  relation,  his  excitement  grew  more  and  more 
intense.  He  lived  it  over  again.  All  the  feelings  that  had 
burned  within  him  on  that  memorable  night  lived  and  glowed 
over  again.     His  wild  face  was  by  turns  animated  by  sorrow, 


3i6 


Changes. 


hate,  vengeance,  or  triumph.  His  yellow  hair,  thick  beard, 
and  large  frame,  his  guttural  intonation  and  foreign  accent, 
his  wild  gesticulations,  all  made  him  most  impressive. 

Nero,  in  his  rapture,  took  from  his  own  neck  a  gold  chain, 
and  flung  it  around  that  of  Galdus. 

He  declared  that  tliis  story  had  given  him  a  new  inspira- 
tion. He  would  go  on  with  his  tragedy,  and  it  should  astonish 
the  world.  He  vowed,  also,  that  Galdus  should  act  .out  tlie 
whole  scene  in  person.     Such  was  the  effect  of  this  on  Nero. 

After  a  while,  Labco  went  to  court,  from  no  particular 
motive,  but  partly  out  of  a  vague  sense  of  duty,  and  partly 
from  the  force  of  an  old  impulse  toward  promotion.  Vory 
faint  iiad  that  desire  for  promotion  now  become.  The  ter- 
rible lesson  which  he  had  learned  had  weakened  ambition, 
and  showed  him,  in  a  way  which  he  could  never  forget,  the 
utter  uncertainty  of  the  most  flattering  hopes.  He  turned 
his  thoughts  more  fondly  than  ever  on  that  wife  and  son 
whom  he  had  so  nearly  lost.  He  began  to  think  of  happi- 
ness with  them,  without  any  larger  dignity  or  greater  power 
than  he  had  now. 

But,  above  all,  his  position  in  the  court  was  painful  to  him 
for  this  reason,  that  he  could  not  endure  even  the  sight  of  that 
man  by  whose  warrant  so  terrible  a  blow  had  been  dealt  on 
him ;  that  man  against  whom  he  had  once  armed  himself, 
and  whose  life  he  had  sworn  to  take.  Could  he  now  ask 
favori  from  this  man,  or,  even  if  they  were  offered,  could  he 
accept  them  ?     He  felt  that  he  could  not. 

His  silence  and  resei*ve  were  not  noticed  by  Nero.  Labeo 
had  always  been  thus,  and  Nero  had  been  accustomed  to  look 
on  him  as  a  sort  of  lay  figure  in  his  court,  an  ornament,  a 
work  of  art.  Nor  could  the  emperor  imagine  that  the  events 
of  the  arrest  were  viewed  in  any  other  light  by  Labeo  than 
by  himself.  The  heart  of  that  father  and  husband  lay  hid- 
den from  his  sight ;  that  there  should  be  there  bitter  memo- 
ries and  deep  wounds,  v,iis  something  which  was  simply 
inconceivable  to  a  man  like  him. 


Changes. 


317 


After  some  months  Labeo  found  that  this  life  was  unen- 
durable, and  he  began  to  loathe  it,  —  to  loathe  the  miserable 
crew  of  courtiers,  and  the  hateful  tyrant  who  presided.  He 
determined  to  leave. 

Other  things  influenced  him,  but,  above  all,  Marcus. 
Month  after  month  had  passed,  but  the  gloom  that  had  set- 
tled down  over  that  young  heart  had  been  in  no  way  dissi- 
pated. His  father  and  mother  looked  with  deep  concern  on 
the  thin  face,  which  seemed  to  grow  more  melancholy  in  its 
expression  every  day.  He  was  forever  brooding  over  his 
own  thoughts,  and  nursing  the  sombre  fancies  which  came 
over  his  mind.  It  was  a  state  of  mind  over  which  a  man 
might  grow  mad,  and  over  which  a  boy  or  a  child  must  die. 
This  Labeo  saw.  He  watched  with  anguish  the  lack-lustre 
eye,  the  listless  motion,  and  the  unelastic  step  of  that  son, 
whose  bounding  life  had  a  short  time  before  animated  all 
the  house  and  filled  it  with  joyousness.  Marcus  had  ceased 
to  laugh  and  play.  His  father  felt  as  though  he  had  ceased 
to  be  himself.  He  felt  that  above  all  there  was  needed  a 
total  change  of  scene,  and  could  think  of  no  place  so  good  as 
Britain. 

To  go  back  there  was  to  give  up  all  his  hopes  of  immedi- 
ate advancement ;  but  Labeo  had  grown  to  care  little  for  this, 
Britain  would  afford  new  scenes.  They  had  been  there  be- 
fore, and  loved  it.  Marcus  would  revive,  perhaps,  in  that 
bracing  air  from  the  Northern  Sea,  and  resume  his  former 
nature.* 

Labeo  had  no  difficulty  in  getting  the  command  of  a  le- 
gion. Nero  was  quite  indifferent  whether  he  went  or 
stayed ;  and  so  all  was  soon  arranged  for  their  departure  to 
a  place  where  there  would  be  no  gloomy  memories  forever 
suggested  to  them,  and  no  perpetual  fear  of  new  dangers. 

Sulpicia  was  left  behind  with  Isaac  as  steward.  Lydia 
remained  also,  and  Cineas,  who  had  resolved  to  linger  in 
Rome  some  time  longer.  Labeo  took  with  him  his  wife  and 
boy,  and  Galdus. 

27* 


1';'^ 


dttMIIUli 


3i8 


Changes. 


TiriiS  passed  on,  and  Tigellinus  had  endeavored  to  divert 
Nero  from  his  revived  literary  tastes.  It  was  the  nature  of 
this  man  to  endure  no  rivalry  of  any  kind.  He  wished 
above  all  to  withdraw  the  emperor  from  association  with 
Cineas,  for  as  long  as  this  lasted  he  felt  that  his  power 
was  only  half  secured.  To  effect  this  he  drew  the  emperor 
away  from  Rome  more  frequently  than  before,  and  for  longer 
periods.  The  Golden  House  was  in  process  of  erection,  and 
till  it  was  finished  Nero  had  no  place  worthy  of  his  grandeur. 
Other  places  afforded  greater  variety,  and  at  Baiae,  or  at 
Nai)les  Nero  could  find  more  novelty  and  equal  luxury. 
Cineas  felt  infinitely  relieved  by  this  new  estrangement  of 
Nero.  Association  with  the  emperor  was  hateful.  Now 
that  his  loved  friends  were  safe,  he  had  no  longer  any  object 
at  court,  and  desired  nothing  no  much  as  to  withdraw  quietly. 
His  desire  was  gratified,  and  in  the  best  way,  for  the  court 
was  withdrawn  from  him,  and  Nero  with  his  usual  fickleness 
soon  thought  no  more  of  his  "  philosopher."  His  tragedy  re- 
mained an  unfinished  conception,  and  the  creatures  of  fancy 
were  supplanted  by  the  horrors  of  fact. 

Tigellinus  worked  on  all  the  evil  passions  of  his  master, 
and  on  none  more  successfully  than  on  his  cruelty.  Many 
of  the  best  men  in  Rome  fell  beneath  his  machinations. 
Cineas  had  vanished  from  the  scene,  and  Tigellinus  thought 
no  more  about  him,  but  transferred  all  his  envy  to  Petro- 
nius.  This  gay,  careless,  and  light-hearted  man  still  clung 
to  the  court,  for  it  was  his  best-loved  home,  and  neither  the 
machinations  of  Tigellinus  nor  the  increasing  cruelty  of  Nero 
deterred  him. 

At  last  Petronius  fell.  Tigellinus  made  up  a  charge 
against  him  that  he  had  taken  part  in  the  great  conspiracy, 
and  Nero  believed,  or  at  least  thought  fit  to  pretend  so. 
Nero  happened  at  the  time  to  be  on  one  of  his  excursions  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Naples  Bay.  Petronius  was  following 
him,  but  was  arrested  at  Cumae.  He  saw  that  he  was 
doomed,  and  met  death  with  that  gayety,  and  calm  contempt 


Changes. 


319 


with  which  he  had  viewed  the  world  all  his  life.  He  died 
in  a  characteristic  manner.  He  would  not  live  in  suspense, 
and  so  scornfully  prepared  to  quit  the  world,  yet  did  not 
wish  to  seem  in  a  hurry  about  it.  He  opened  his  veins, 
and  closed  them  again  at  intervals,  losing  a  small  quantity 
of  blood  each  time,  and  gradually  growing  feebler.  But 
during  the  whole  time  he  was  surrounded  by  friends  with 
whom  he  chatted  and  jested  in  his  usual  careless  man- 
ner. He  would  not  talk  on  grave  philosophical  subjects 
such  as  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  or  in  contempt  of  death, 
but  chose  rather  to  listen  to  music  and  song,  love-strains, 
and  gay  melodies.  He  gave  presents  to  all,  walked  about 
in  doors  and  out,  lay  down  to  sleep  for  a  time,  and  thus 
gayly  and  calmly  dallied  and  trifled  with  death.  To  his 
scorn  of  death,  he  added  equal  scorn  of  his  destroyers,  Ti- 
gellinus  and  Nero,  and  spent  his  last  hours  in  writing  an  ac- 
count of  Nero's  debauchery,  which  he  sent  to  the  emperor 
!?eak'd  with  his  own  seal. 

Meanwhile,  the  persecutions  of  the  Christians  had  greatly 
slackened.  Many  returned  to  their  homes,  and  contented 
themselves  with  eluding  observation  as  much  as  possible. 
Tlie  emperor  had  greater  and  more  important  victims,  and 
cared  no  more  for  these.  Yet  his  edict  against  them  was 
still  in  force  ;  the  lesser  officials  were  still  on  the  lookout,  and 
although  tlie  humbler  Christians  might  pass  unnoticed,  yet 
there  were  some  who  had  been  mentioned  by  name,  and 
whose  arrest  was  still  sought  after  as  a  matter  of  importance. 
Prominent  among  these  was  Julius. 

During  all  this  time  old  Carbo  had  been  a  changed  man. 
From  the  first  he  mourned  over  his  son,  and  inwardly  re- 
pented of  his  own  harshness.  He  secretly  admired  the  con- 
stancy and  heroism  of  his  son,  of  whose  situation  and  bold 
performances  he  kept  himself  always  well  informed.  He 
longed  to  find  some  way  of  regaining  him  and  becoming 
reconciled,  but  did  not  know  how.  His  Roman  pride  pre- 
vented him  from  making  the  first  advances,  and  Julius  could 


320 


Changes. 


not  come  to  hiin.     Thus  he  struggled  with  his  grief  for  a 
long  time,  until  at  last  he  could   bear  it  no  longer. 

One  day  he  visited  Cineas,  and  talked  in  his  usual  strain 
about  the  evils  of  the  time.  He  inveighed  bitterly  against 
Nero,  and  enumerated  all  his  crimes.  Finally,  he  spoke  of 
(he  persecution  of  the  Christians  as  the  most  abominable 
of  all  his  acts,  and  declared  that  the  virtue  of  the  Christians 
was  fully  proved  to  his  mind  by  the  fact  that  they  were 
singled  out  by  Nero  for  his  vengeance.  Had  they  been 
what  he  once  supposed,  they  would  never  thus  have  suffered. 

Cineas  listened  to  all  this  in  surprise  and  in  joy.  He 
thouglit  that  ae  might  perhaps  be  able  to  bring  together  the 
father  and  the  son  ;  he  was  rejoiced  to  think  that  there  was 
such  happiness  in  store  for  his  friend,  and  was  wondering 
liow  he  cculd  best  bring  about  a  meeting,  when  old  Carbo, 
wlio  had  been  silent  for  some  time,  suddenly  came  over  to 
where  Cineas  was,  and,  in  a  voice  which  was  scarce  audible, 
and  broken  by  emotion  exclaimed :  — 

"  Cineas,  you  know  where  he  is.     Take  me  to  him." 

That  settled  all  the  difficulty.  Right  gladly  Cineas  con- 
sented. Tliey  set  off  immediately  to  that  place  wliere 
Juhu8  had  been  so  long,  and  soon  reached  it.  Carbo  shud- 
deied  as  he  descended,  and  walked  through  the  gloomy 
labyrinth,  and  thought  that  this  was  the  place  to  which  his 
son  had  been  banished.  And  for  what  ?  For  integrity,  for 
true  religion,  and  for  virtue. 

At  last  the  father  found  the  so.i.  Leaving  Carbo  behind, 
Cineas  brought  Julius  to  him.  Julius  eame,  pale  and  hag- 
gard as  he  now  had  grown,  bearing  about  him  the  marks  of 
a  wretched  life,  with  his  pallid  countenance  rendered  more  so 
by  the  dim  torch-light.  Carbo  looked  at  him  for  a  moment, 
and  then  caught  him  in  his  arms. 

"  Oh,  my  son  ! "  he  murmured,  and  burst  into  a  flood  of 
tears. 

"  Father,"  said  Julius,  who  was  affected  to  an  equal  de- 
gree.    "  I  knew  ail  the  time  that  you  forgave  me." 


Changes. 


321 


But  Carbo  now  began  cursing  himself  for  his  weakness, 
and  ti'ied  to  check  his  tears ;  but  then,  looking  again  at  his 
son,  fresh  tears  came  to  his  eyes,  till  at  last  he  sat  down,  and 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  wept  bitterly. 

Now  that  the  old  man  had  found  his  son,  and  taken  him 
back  to  his  heart,  he  could  not  endure  the  thought  of  further 
separation.  He  was  anxious  for  Julius  to  leave  instantly, 
and  come  home.  He  offered  to  protect  him  against  all  dan- 
ger ;  and  Julius  smiled  sadly  and  lovingly,  as  the  old  man 
declared  that  he  would  lay  down  his  life  for  his  son  if  any 
one  tried  to  arrest  him. 

"  I  know  you  would,  father,  as  I  would  for  you ;  but  I  have 
other  things  to  consider.  It  is  not  fear  of  myself  that  keeps 
me  here.  I  don't  have  any.  I  could  easily  elude  any  pur- 
suers. But  there  are  some  here  who  cannot  do  so.  They 
are  less  active,  and  more  timid  than  I  am.  We  who  are 
strong  have  to  bear  the  burdens  of  the  weak.  That  is  our 
religion.  Some  of  these  poor,  timid  souls  would  not  dare  to 
quit  this  place.  While  there  is  a  single  dear  child  of  Christ 
in  this  place,  I  must  stay,  and  help,  and  comfort  him.  It  is 
the  duty  of  some  to  teach;  it  is  my  duty  to  protect  the  fearful 
and  the  weak.    And  I  think  I  have  done  some  little  for  tliem." 

Carbo's  eyes  glistened  as  he  looked  on  his  son,  and  heard 
these  sentiments. 

"  Heaven  help  them,  boy,  if  they  lose  you  !  I  understand 
you.  I  must  yield.  It  is  hard.  But  I  can  say  nothing. 
If  I  were  a  young  man,  I  would  turn  Christian,  and  come 
here  and  help  you.  You  are  living  gloriously,  my  noble  boy. 
But  will  I  never  see  you?  Must  I  go  back  and  live  without 
you  ?  Will  you  let  your  old  father  die,  and  not  come  near 
him  ?  " 

"  I  will  come  and  see  you  Avhenever  I  can,"  said  Julius. 
'•  I  will  spend  days  with  you.  Soon,  perhaps,  I  will  be  able 
to  stay  at  home.  Be  patient,  dear  father.  Think  of  what  I 
have  to  do.  We  will  meet  often  now.  Thank  God  that  this 
misunderstimding  is  over."  * 


322 


Changes. 


Julius  kept  his  word.  His  visits  to  his  fsither  were  fre- 
quent, and  sometimes  protraetcd.  He  never  encountered 
any  danger.  The  new  life,  and  the  partial  deliverance  from 
the  gloom  and  damp  of  the  vaults  had  a  marked  effect. 
His  pallor  changed  into  a  fresher  hue,  and  his  spirit  became 
brighter. 

But  there  was  one  thing  which  exercised  a  more  power- 
ful effect  for  good  than  even  the  bright  air  and  sunshine 
and  reconciliation  with  his  father. 

There  was  one  who  always  looked  out  for  his  visits,  and 
counted  the  days  of  his  absence,  and  heard  the  sound  of  his 
voici?  with  a  beating  heart,  —  one  whose  whole  being,  from 
which  all  other  ties  had  been  torn,  now  turned  fondly  to  him, 
and  found  in  him  the  great  consolation  of  life.  This  was 
Lydia. 

The  visits  of  Julius  grew  more  and  more  protracted  in 
length.  Much  of  his  time  was  passed  at  Labeo's  villa.  His 
father  folloAved  him  there.  When  Julius  was  away,  the  old 
man  would  come  there,  knowing  that  the  place  was  dear  to 
his  boy,  and  longing  to  speak  to  some  one  about  him.  Some- 
times Cineas  was  the  one  whom  he  selected ;  but  he  soon 
found  another  hearer  who  was  never  tired  of  hearing  him 
speak  on  his  one  theme,  who  was  willing  to  listen  for  hours, 
and  prompt  him,  and  incite  him  with  questions.  Carbo 
found  a  charm  in  this  listener  that  he  knew  nowhere  else. 
And  so  at  last  he  came  to  Labeo's  house  every  day  to  talk 
of  liis  one  theme  to  Lydia. 

He  ceased  railing  at  Eome,  and  his  former  bitterness  and 
cynicism  had  departed,  and  given  way  to  a  milder  temper 
and  a  gentler  mood.  The  stern  face  with  its  military  air, 
and  the  mild  voice  with  which  he  always  addressed  himself 
to  Lydia,  sometimes  reminded  her  of  her  own  father,  and 
made  her  love  the  father  of  Julius. 

Time  passed  on,  and  Julius  began  to  recover  his  former 
robust  and  energetic  health.  Life  had  become  sweet.  The 
catacombs  were  only  used  at  times  in  sudden  fear.      Thg 


Changes. 


323 


»»i 


most  timid  had  ventured  forth,  and  had  resumed  their  former 
lives.  At  last  Juliua  was  able  to  remain  altogether  at  his 
father's  house. 

Now  Julius  and  Lydia  were  near  one  another.  Bound 
together  by  common  remembrance  of  suffering  endured  in 
common,  it  seemed  at  last  as  though  their  sorrows  were  over 
for  a  time. 

All  the  nature  of  Julius  had  been  pervaded  by  the  influ- 
ence of  that  fair  young  girl.  He  had  seen  her  in  her  hum- 
bl(i  garret,  where  she  used  to  live  with  her  father ;  he  had 
watched  her  in  the  gloomy  catacombs,  where  she  had  closed 
her  father's  eyes.     He  had  saved  her  life  over  and  ove  •. 

Out  in  the  free  air  once  more,  he  could  not  endure  the 
thought  of  only  the  slight  separation  that  now  kept  them 
apart.  Life  was  dull  and  unmeaning  till  she  was  with  him 
to  share  all.  He  could  not  wait  even  till  his  safety  was 
secured. 

If  I  wait  till  then,  I  must  wait  till  I  die.  She  shall  take 
me  as  I  am,  in  danger,  and  with  death  before  me,  and  we 
will  share  the  same  fate  whatever  it  is.  As  long  as  I  am  a 
Christian  this  lot  will  be  mine.  And  what  is  more,  she  is 
in  the  same  danger. 

So  Lydia  was  taken  from  her  life  of  dependence  and  lone- 
liness. Cai'bo's  house,  though  humble  in  comparison  with 
others,  seemed  like  a  palace  to  Lydia.  Her  presence  made 
it  brighter,  and  more  radiant  in  the  eyes  of  Julius.  The  old 
man  had  need  no  longer  to  travel  to  Labeo's  house  to  find 
one  to  whom  he  could  talk  about  his  boy.  The  wife  of  Ju- 
lius loved  that  theme  better  than  any  other,  and  so  happily 
did  the  days  of  Carbo  pass,  that  he  seemed  to  have  renewed 
his  youth,  and  at  last  did  not  know  which  he  loved  best,  his 
son,  or  his  new  daughter. 


Former 
The 
Th9 


XXX. 


THE    CHIEF  MARTYR. 


HEN  the  Christians  of  Rome  were  thus  beginnirij^ 
to  breathe  freely  again,  and  to  return  to  their  for- 
mer avocations  with  some  degree  of  security,  the 
little  community  was  filled  with  joy  by  an  event 
which  was  to  them  of  the  greatest  importance. 

This  was  no  less  a  thing  than  the  arrival  of  the 
great  apostle  among  them. 
With  him  came  Philo,  who  had  accompanied  him  every- 
where in  his  wanderings,  and  who  now  seemed  paler,  weaker, 
but,  in  spite  of  all  that,  more  ardent  and  energetic  than  ever. 
Many  were  the  stories  which  these  poor  afflicted  ones  in 
Rome  had  to  tell  of  their  persecutions  and  sufferings.  In 
the  relief  which  they  now  had  from  the  weight  of  oppression, 
they  were  yet  conscious  of  danger.  That  danger  they  all 
saw  was  most  likely  to  fall  on  the  very  eminent  ones,  and 
of  them  all  the  most  eminent  by  far  was  Paul. 

For  him  they  feared.  They  entreated  him  to  save  him- 
self from  danger  by  quietness  and  obscurity.  But  Paul's 
nature  did  not  allow  him  to  do  this.  He  had  passed  his  life 
in  encountering  perils,  and,  as  he  fully  expected  to  die  at 
some  time  or  other  for  his  religion,  he  was  as  'eady  to  lay 
down  his  life  in  Rome  as  in  any  other  place. 

He  therefore  continued  his  labors  with  the  utmost  pub- 
licity, and  in  all  respects  acted  just  as  if  the  Christians  were 
tolerated  by  the  government.     Under  these  circumstances  he 

soon  attracted  attention ;  and  as  there  were  many  officials 
(324) 


The  Chief  Martyr. 


325 


hero,  as  thrrc  always  are  everywhere,  who  desire  to  earn 
distinction  hy  a  siiow  of  zeal,  his  labors  were  at  last  termi- 
nated by  his  arrest. 

After  his  trial  he  was  imprisoned  in  the  dungeons  of  the 
Maniertine  Prison,  at  tiie  toot  of  the  Capitoline  Hill. 

Here  he  prepared  for  his  death.  Philo,  who  was  his  con- 
stant attendant,  had  been  arrested  at  the  same  time,  placed 
in  the  same  prison,  and  doomed  to  the  same  fate. 

linough  time  elapsed  between  his  arrest  and  his  execution 
to  enable  Paul  to  receive  the  visits  of  some  friends,  and  ad- 
minister comfort  to  them ;  and  to  write  to  other  friends  at  a 
distance  words  of  divine  consolation. 

Among  those  who  came  to  see  the  prisoner  was  Cineas. 

He  had  seen  him  before,  when  engaged  in  the  labor  of  his 
life. 

He  now  looked  with  admiration  upon  this  man  in  his 
prison,  who  stood  before  him  in  his  chains,  calm,  self-pos- 
pesscd,  and  joyous,  with  an  exhilaration  of  manner  that  filled 
liim  with  astonishment. 

The  apostle  expressed  himself  not  only  perfectly  willing 
to  sulfer  im[)risonment,  but  really  desirous  to  die.  He  said 
that  he  was  ready  to  depart,  and  that  departure  from  earth 
meant  arrival  at  heaven.  Thus  far  he  had  fought  the  battle 
of  Christ,  and  now  his  warfare  was  over.  He  would  now 
gain  the  reward  of  his  toils.  Immortal  blessedness  lay  be- 
fore him  ;  glory  such  as  no  mind  could  conceive ;  bliss  un- 
speakable and  eternal.  His  fight  was  fought ;  his  race  was 
run  ;  he  had  been  faithful,  and  heaven  was  secure. 

Cineas  looked  upon  the  attitude  of  Paul  in  the  face  of 
dc.Uh  with  the  profoundest  admiration.  He  thought  that  the 
death  of  Socrates,  which  he  had  always  so  loved  to  contem- 
plate, would  be  repeated  in  the  man  before  him,  and  even 
owned  to  himself  that  there  were  things  in  which  the  apostle 
surpassed  the  philosopher. 

Paul  did  not  remain  long  in  prison. 

A  few  days  afterwards  the  end  came. 
28 


iiilli 


326 


The  Chief  Martyr. 


He  was  spared  the  keener  agonies  of  death  by  fire.  The 
Roman  public  had  long  since  become  satiated  with  horrors, 
and  the  spectacle  of  a  man  burning  at  the  stake  now  excited 
different  feelings  from  what  it  once  did. 

And  now,  when  Paul's  turn  came,  it  was  considered  that 
the  laws  would  be  satisfied  if  he  suflfered  capital  punishment 
like  any  other  person.  Fire  was  an  extraordinary  applica- 
tion ;  it  was  not  required  here. 

The  common  execution  by  beheading  was  allotted  to 
him. 

His  lofty  spirit  was  sustained  to  the  last  by  a  high,  unfal- 
tering faith,  —  faith  that  was  more  than  faith,  since  it  had 
become  intensified  to  knowledge  and  conviction. 

He  knew  that  heaven  awaited  him.  He  saw  the  crown 
of  glory  that  was  laid  up  for  him  on  high. 

The  sunshine  of  that  heaven  seemed  to  irradiate  his  face ; 
and  those  who  looked  on  him  thought  that  they  saw  the  face 
of  an  angel. 

As  that  noble  head  fell  beneath  the  axe,  there  was  one 
who  looked  on,  viewing  everything,  who  saw  in  this  the 
grandest  triumph  of  Christianity. 

"  Farewell,  O  Paul !  "  he  murmured.  "  Noble  soul,  — 
Christian,  —  more  than  philosopher !  Go  up  to  heaven  to 
thy  kindred!  Thou  art  sublime.  Thou  hast  surpassed 
Socrates." 

With  Paul  another  suffered. 

His  friend,  his  constant  companion,  his  faithful  and  zealous 
associate. 

At  last  Philo  found  the  end  of  his  sorrows  and  his  tears, 
and  this  was  his  happiness,  that  he  could  lay  down  his  life 
for  Christ,  and  die  by  the  side  of  Paul. 

There  were  loving  hands  which  took  up  the  remains  and 
bore  them  to  that  place  already  consecrated  by  the  Christian 
dead,  and  by  the  presence  of  those  who  ^  "'^  once  lived  there 
in  persecution,  of  whom  the  world  was  not  worthy,  —  to  that 
place  which  later  ages  should  fill  with  Christian  monuments  • 


The  Chief  Martyr. 


327 


and  time  still  succeeding  should  hallow  with  the  holy  re- 
membrances of  martyrs. 

There  they  buried  Paul. 

There,  too,  they  buried  Philo,  in  the  same  grave  in  which 
his  mother  lay,  and  over  his  mother's  inscription  they  carved 
a  dove  bearing  an  olive-branch,  —  the  emblem  of  the  Peace 
that  he  had  gained,  —  and  the  simple  words,  — 

"  The  Bisomum  of  Philo  and  Clymenb." 


XXXI. 


imREA  VEMENTS. 

ABEO  had  found  a  home  in  Britain,  not  far  from 
London.     His  villa  was  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city, 
and  looked  toward  the  river.     London  had  been 
Sl|  rebuilt,  and  showed  but  few  traces  of  the  devasta- 
tion to  which  it  had  been  subject. 

Here,  he  thought,  in  this  quiet. and  peaceful  spot, 
far  removed  from  the  painful  remembrances  of 
Rome,  that  Alarcus  might  forget  the  past,  and  that  the 
weight  might  be  removed  from  his  young  heart,  and  the 
seeds  of  disease  be  destroyed.  But  Marcus  showed  no  signs 
of  improvement.  In  his  dreams  he  still  suffered  the  horrors 
of  the  catacombs,  and  lived  among  the  tombs,  and  stood 
beside  the  dead.  Not  easily  could  his  sensitive  nature  shake 
off  the  dread  impi-essions  of  that  place  of  woe.  As  he 
dreamed,  so  he  thought,  and  his  father  shuddered  as  he 
heard  him  always  talk,  when  he  did  talk,  about  death  ond 
the  grave.  In  vain  the  resources  of  the  country  were  ex- 
hausted to  contrive  amusements  for  the  boy.  Amusements 
had  lost  their  charm.  He  was  too  indifferent  to  them  all. 
His  parents  saw  an  increasing  languor  and  dulness,  which 
heightened  their  alarm.  The  bracing  air  of  this  colder 
clime  was  expected  to  produce  a  beneficial  effect ;  but  no 
benefit  was  received. 

Helena's  whole  being  was  bound  up  in  her  child,  and  his 
failing  health  kept  her  in  a  constant  state  of  alarm  and 
anxiety.     Sensitive  and  nervous,  she  had  never  been  strong, 
(828) 


"T 


Bereavements. 


329 


and  the  dread  experience  through  whicli  she  had  passed, 
when  she  had  tasted  of  the  bitterness  of  death,  had  left  deep 
and  abiding  traces.  Many  gray  hairs  appeared  already  on 
that  brow  which  was  yet  young,  and  lines  were  marked  on 
her  fair  face,  and  the  signs  of  grief  remained.  Perhaps,  if 
Mai'cus  had  recovered  his  old  spirit,  and  life  had  been  joy- 
ous, —  if  she  had  gone  back  to  perfect  peace  and  liberty,  un- 
alloyed by  anxiety,  —  then  she  might  have  recovered  from 
the  terr  jrs  of  that  eventful  night.  But  new  griefs  succeeded 
to  old  ones,  and  the  thin  pale  face  of  Marcus,  which  haunted 
her  night  and  dsiy,  was  worse  than  the  catacombs. 

As  the  boy  failed,  the  mother  knew  that  she,  too,  was  fail- 
ing. She  told  no  one.  She  feared  to  add  to  her  husband's 
grief  by  telling  him.  She  hid  the  secret  in  her  heart,  and 
that  heart  ached  for  him  who  was  to  be  so  bereaved.  Slie 
knew  that  her  life  and  that  of  Marcus  would  have  the  same 
course. 

Often  this  thought  came  vividly  before  her  as  she  looked 
lit  Marcus,  and  then  she  would  clasp  him  passionately  to  her 
teart,  and  exclaim  :  "  O  sweet  boy  ! "  but  she  said  no  more, 
for  she  dared  not  utter  the  thought  that  was  in  her  mind. 

But  as  his  face  grew  thinner,  and  his  form  more  slight, 
and  his  eyes  more  lustrous,  so  did  her?.,  as  though  there  were 
some  subtle  sympathy  between  these  two  which  bound  each 
to  a  common  fate. 

To  all  this  Labeo  was  not  blind.  He  could  see  it  all  as 
he  looked  mournfully  upon  the  change  which  time  made  in 
each,  and  marked  how  both  declined  together.  lie  saw  it 
all.  He  knew  what  Helena's  secret  was,  which  she  in  her 
love  would  conceal. 

At  first  he  struggled  against  it  and  tried  hard  to  disbelieve 
it,  to  reason  away  his  fears.  In  vain.  The  mother  and  son 
were  there  before  him  to  show  him  what  was  coming.  He 
tried  to  hope,  but  hope  grew  fainter  and  fainter,  till  at  last 
all  hope  died  out,  and  he  was  forced  to  struggle  with  the 
terror  that  lay  full  before  him. 
28* 


I   ' 


330 


Bereavements. 


For  Marcus  at  last  grew  so  weak  that  he  could  walk 
about  no  longer. 

Then  Labeo  carried  him  about  in  the  open  air ;  tenderly, 
lovingly,  while  his  heart  was  breaking,  and  in  his  tones 
which  were  always  tender  and  loving,  there  came  a  new  ten- 
derness, a  passion  of  love,  and  a  deep  yearning  over  this 
idol  of  liis  heart.  The  strong  man  carried  the  pale,  dying 
boy  about  the  garden  all  the  day  long,  or  sat  holding  him  in 
his  arms  gazing  upon  him  with  speechless  love.  He  was 
avaricious  about  his  boy;  he  wished  to  lose  not  a  single 
word,  or  a  single  look.  He  treasured  them  all  up  within  his 
memory. 

Thus  while  the  father  carried  his  boy  about  the  garden, 
Helena  used  to  look  at  them  from  a  distance,  and  think  such 
thoughts  as  she  would  not  wish  to  tell. 

And  Labeo  used  to  look  away  from  the  wasted  form  of 
his  son  to  the  slender  figure  of  that  other  dear  one,  and  mark 
her  wan  face  and  hollow  cheeks,  and  wonder  whether  he 
could  bear  all  that  was  impending. 

For  he  knew  it,  —  he  knew  it.  Before  him  he  saw  a  black 
cloud  without  one  ray  of  light.  Bereavement,  twofold,  un- 
endurable, not  to  be  thought  of,  —  anguish  that  breaks  the 
heart,  and  sorrow  without  a  name.  And  the  gloom  of  that 
future  darkened  all  his  life,  so  that  each  succeeding  day 
brought  a  -worse  fear,  and  drew  him  nearer  and  nearer  to 
despair. 

But  as  Marcus  grew  weaker  in  body,  his  soul  grew 
stronger.  His  spirit  rose,  and  he  tried  to  comfort  his  mother 
and  console  her ;  but  most  of  all,  his  thoughts  and  his  heart 
turned  to  his  father. 

His  whole  nature  had  been  affectionate.  The  chief  mo- 
tive of  his  nature  was  love,  and  now,  when  the  world  passed 
away  and  life  lost  its  glow,  his  love  arose  over  all  and  cen- 
tred itself  in  his  father. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  pride  which  he  had  always  felt  for 
that  father ;  for  Labeo  had  always  been  to  Marcus  his  high- 


Bereavements. 


331 


est  ideal  of  manhood,  —  such  a  one  as  he  co'ild  most  admire 
and  revere,  —  such  a  one  as  he  himself  had  once  hoped  to  be. 

Perhaps  he  thought  that  his  mother  needed  it  not  so 
much  ;  perhaps  he  saw  that  the  grief  would  be  less,  since  it 
would  be  endured  for  a  shorter  time.  She  would  be  deliv- 
ered from  her  soiTow,  while  he  must  linger  on  in  his  misery 
without  a  comfort  or  a  support. 

It  wsis  this  that  made  him  return  with  equal  fondness  all 
the  affection  that  his  father  lavished  on  him,  and  while 
he  looked  on  the  face  of  his  son,  the  son  would  turn  to  the 
father  a  fixed  gaze  of  love;  he  would  seek  for  caresses,  and 
make  his  father  hold  his  hand ;  by  all  these  acts  expressing 
what  words  were  weak  to  tell. 

Whether  by  night  or  by  day  Labeo  could  not  leave  his  son. 
In  his  sleej)  he  watched  over  him  as  though  by  his  presence 
he  sought  to  shield  him  from  the  approach  of  danger. 

Time  passed,  and  the  weakness  increased,  until  at  last  the 
father  could  no  longer  carry  the  boy  in  his  arms,  but  had 
to  watch  over  him  in  his  chamber,  and  then  all  the  life  of 
Labeo  was  passed  in  the  room  where  Marcus  lay. 

And  still,  as  the  body  wasted,  the  spirit  strengthened,  — 
there  was  less  of  earth,  but  more  of  heaven.  The  words 
that  he  spoke  were  not  the  words  of  a  child.  He  talked  on 
things  of  which  Labeo  knew  nothing ;  but  the  words  vibrated 
through  all  his  being,  and  were  treasured  up  in  his  memory, 
and  called  to  mind  in  after  years. 

These  were  some  simple  words  that  were  most  frequently 
on  his  lips,  spoken  in  a  weak,  but  earnest  voice,  and  with  a 
glance  of  deep  love  that  death  itself  could  not  shake. 

"  Father,  we  will  all  be  there  at  last. 

"  Father,  I  will  be  there  first. 

"  Father,  we  will  meet  again." 

Then  Labeo  looked  into  his  own  soul,  and  asked  him- 
self, —  did  he  know  this  as  his  son  knew  it  ?  Was  he  sure 
of  it?  That  boy  was.  But  was  he?  And  he  knew  that 
he  was  not. 


332 


Bereavements. 


Beside  tlie  father  was  the  mother,  with  the  same  anxiety, 
ke('[)ing  watch,  in  her  feebleness,  over  the  same  couch,  and 
only  desiring  Hfe  for  this,  —  that  she  might  live  long  enough 
to  console  the  father  when  the  blow  should  first  fall,  —  hold- 
ing the  same  grief,  but  not  the  same  despair ;  for  now,  at  the 
slow  but  sure  approach  of  the  end,  the  very  blackness  of 
darkness  gathered  around  Labeo,  and  his  soul  was  filled  with 
desolation. 

Yet  every  hour  that  took  away  part  of  that  boy's  life  took 
away  an  equal  part  of  the  life  of  that  mother. 

In  the  midst  of  this,  Marcus  used  to  speak  his  artless  words 
about  heaven  and  God,  as  though  he  spoke  of  that  with 
which  evei'y  one  was  familiar.  Yet  Labeo  knew  nothing 
of  these  things,  and  the  feelings  of  Marcus  were  a  mystery 
to  him.  The  One  so  loved  by  Helena  and  by  his  son  was 
not  known  to  himself,  and  not  believed  in.  In  the  time  of 
his  prosperity  and  happiness  he  had  turned  away,  and  now, 
in  the  time  of  his  grief,  he  stood  afar  off. 

"  Father,"  said  Marcus,  "  we  will  meet  again.  Will  we 
not,  father?     Say,  father." 

And  the  flither,  in  his  anguish,  kissed  the  white  lips  of  his 
son,  but  could  find  no  answer,  till  Marcus  urged  him  so  that 
he  had  to  say  something. 

"  O  my  boy,  may  the  great  God  grant  it !  " 

"  He  will  —  he  will  —  my  father." 

It  was  with  such  words  as  these  that  this  fair  young  spirit 
took  its  flight  to  a  pui'er  world,  and  a  holier  companionship, 
and  a  diviner  love,  leaving  behind  the  memory  of  his  dying 
words,  to  be  treasured  up  in  that  father's  broken  heart,  and 
retained  through  years,  till,  like  precious  seed,  they  should 
bring  forth  fruit  at  last. 

It  was  early  morning  when  Marcus  left  them.  They  had 
watched  him  all  night.  He  lay  silent,  breathing  fast,  held 
in  the  arms  of  his  father,  his  head  supported  on  that  fjither's 
breast,  who,  all  unnerved,  trembled  like  a  child,  while  the 
fierce  throbbings  of  his  heart  bore  witness  to  his  agony. 


"   .'*>'  W*! 


Bereavements. 


Z3^ 


'M 


Dawn  came  and  the  boy  opened  his  eyes. 

"  Father,"  said  he. 

"  0  my  son  ! "  groaned  Labeo,  in  a  voice  of  despair. 

"  Kiss  me,  father." 

And  these  were  his  last  words.  And  as  the  father  pressed 
his  hps  on  the  cold  brow,  that  loving  spirit,  with  all  its  ten- 
der grace  and  beauty,  gently  passed  away.  A  smile  irradi- 
ated the  marble  features  of  the  dead.  Labeo  closed  the  eyes 
that  looked  on  him  Avith  such  love  to  the  last,  and  gently 
placed  on  the  couch  that  form  in  which  he  saw  the  ruin  of 
all  hope  and  all  affection  and  all  happiness. 

Then  all  his  grief,  resisted  and  struggled  against  for 
months,  rushed  upon  him  and  over-mastered  him.  He  stag- 
gered back  and  fell  to  the  flooi'. 

Loving  hearts  cared  for  him.  He  revived  and  came  back 
to  his  living  grief,  but  only  to  find  another  sorrow. 

Cineas  had  come  from  Rome  when  he  first  heard  that  the 
sickness  of  Marcus  was  alarming,  and  was  now  in  this 
mourning  household.  He  saw  a  grief  beyond  his  powers  to 
console.  What  had  he  to  say  ?  Nothing.  Helena  had 
more  to  say.  It  was  she  who  spoke,  as  she  hung  over  La- 
beo, who,  though  roused  to  sense,  was  yet  bewildered  and 
crushed  by  his  great  sorrow.  Labeo  sat  as  one  who  heard 
nothing.  He  looked  at  vacancy.  The  only  sound  that  he 
heard  was  the  last  words  of  that  one  who  now  lay  there,  — 
lost  to  his  heart,  forever. 

So  he  thought,  and  if  that  one  thought  took  form,  it  was 
this,  —  that  his  love,  his  idol,  his  darling  was  gone,  gone 
forever  and  forever,  and  what  was  life?  Could  he  live 
after  this  ?  Dare  he  live  and  meet  what  was  before  him  ? 
He  thought  of  the  dagger  of  that  old  Sulpicius,  which  once 
before  he  had  seized  when  that  same  son  was  borne 
away. 

Sweet  and  low,  amid  that  madness  and  that  despair,  came 
the  sound  of  Helena's  voice. 

"  He  said  we  would  all  meet  again.    And  we  may  all  have 


vi, 


334  Bereavements. 

that  meeting.     Where  he  has  gone,  there  we  may  all  go,  if 
we  will. 

"  He  is  not  dead.     He  lives.     He  has  left  his  form  be 
hind,  as  we  might  leave  our  garments,  but  he  himself  now 
stands  among  the  redeemed. 

"  This  is  the  glory  of  the  religion  of  Christ,  that  little  chil- 
dren can  know  him,  and  feel  his  love  in  life  and  in  death. 
He  invited  them  to  him.  He  said  that  heaven  was  made  up 
of  such.  Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  And  who  is 
fit  for  heaven,  if  Marcus  is  not  ? 

"  He  is  in  light  and  life  eternal,  while  we  are  in  darkness 
and  death.  He  looks  down  upon  our  grief  from  heaven. 
We  may  all  meet  him  there  if  we  will." 

But  Labeo  heard  nothing.  All  this  seemed  mere  useless 
words.  Cineas  hear..,  and  recalled  the  words  of  Paul  in  the 
catacombs,  over  the  burial  of  Clymene.  His  philosophy 
had  nothing  for  consolation  in  sorrow,  but  here  was  some- 
thing that  well  might  bring  comfort  and  peace.  Did  it  not  ? 
There  sat  the  bereaved  mother ;  but  though  natural  grief  was 
strong,  the  faith  of  the  soul  triumphed  over  nature.  She 
looked  away  from  the  inanimate  corpse,  and  saw  her  true 
son  in  heaven,  in  glory. 

But  Helena  herself  had  no  need  to  mourn.  Her  separa- 
tion from  her  boy  was  not  to  be  long,  and  she  knew  it.  She 
knew  it  as  she  stood  looking  at  the  loved  remains  when  they 
placed  them  in  the  tomb,  when  the  faint  beatings  of  her  heart 
gave  solemn  warning  to  her  of  the  coming  hour ;  and  she 
thought  that  in  a  little  time  she  too  would  lie  there,  and 
mourners  would  tenderly  and  tearfully  deposit  her  ashes  in 
their  last  resting-place. 

She  moved  about  feebly,  yet  still  struggled  to  keep  up  as 
long  as  possible.  But  after  the  burial  of  Marcus  she  rose  no 
more.  After  that,  she  too  sank  upon  the  bed  of  sickness,  and 
husband  and  brother  had  to  undergo  another  bereavement. 

Worn  out  in  body  and  in  mind,  by  calamities,  by  grief, 
and  by  long  attendance  on  Marcus,  in  which  she  nerved  her- 


Bereavements. 


335 


self  to  the  worst  for  a  time,  but  only  to  feel  a  worse  reaction, 
there  was  no  hope  for  her  now.  It  was  impossible  to  save 
her.     She  must  die. 

Labeo  said  nothing.  He  had  foreseen  it ;  he  had  known 
it  when  his  boy  died.  He  had  then  known  despair,  and  had 
suffered  the  extreme  of  anguish.  He  could  feel  no  more. 
There  lay  before  him  the  partner  of  his  life,  loved  tenderly 
and  faithfully,  and  he  knew  that  she  too  was  about  to  leave 
him.  There  were  times  when  he  yielded  to  his  tenderness  or 
to  his  grief,  but  for  the  most  part  ho  sat  there,  rigid,  stony, 
defying  Heaven. 

But  for  Cineas  the  sight  of  Helena  thus  passing  away  was 
terrible.  His  mother  had  died  in  his  childhood.  His  father's 
death  was  the  only  thing  in  all  his  Ufe  that  had  ever  troubled 
him.  That  death  occurred  when  he  was  at  an  age  when  the 
feelings  are  keen,  but  sorrow,  if  deep,  is  short-lived.  Here, 
then,  came  a  sorrow  over  his  soul,  and  he  felt  that  it  would 
be  carried  to  his  grave. 

For  in  childhood,  and  boyhood,  and  early  manhood,  Helena 
and  he  had  been  inseparable,  uniting  in  all  tastes,  and  all  en- 
joyments, with  that  strange  spiritual  sympathy  which  drew 
both  together,  and  made  one  the  counterpart  of  the  other. 
He  loved  Helena  as  he  never  loved  any  other  human  being. 
All  the  sweetest  associations  of  life  were  blended  with  her. 
No  love  could  be  stronger  than  this,  or  more  enduring. 

Helena  knew  the  agony  that  lay  before  that  brother's 
heart,  how  he  would  miss  her,  and  no  more  find  one  who 
understood  himself  and  his  aspirations ;  how  in  his  clinging 
affection  he  would  cherish  her  memory,  and  make  the  com 
I)anion  of  his  childhood  the  brightest  memory  of  his  later 
3'ears.     But  to  him  it  would  be  nothing  but  a  memory. 

Now,  on  that  bed  from  which  she  expected  to  rise  no 
more,  her  soul  stood  in  the  presence  of  the  other  world,  and 
seemed  to  see  something  of  its  majesty.  She  spoke  now  as 
though  she  saw  what  was  before  her.  On  Labeo's  ears 
her  words  fell  unheeded ;  but  Cineas  heard  all,  and  under- 


336 


Bereavements. 


stood  all,  and  his  whole  nature  thrilled  at  some  of  those 
words  which  she  spake. 

All  referred  to  Christ. 

"  He  is  truth.     Seek  him,  and  you  will  find  peace. 

"  He  is  the  only  one  worth  seeking  after.  Find  him  and 
you  gain  immortality.  He  gives  eternal  life  with  himself  in 
lieaven. 

"  O  Cineas,  you  have  learned  all  that  philosophy  can  ever 
ti'll  you,  but  there  is  something  which  you  do  not  know,  and 
you  feel  the  need  of  it.  You  crave  it,  you  seek  after  it.  I 
have  found  it  all  in  the  religion  of  Christ. 

"  You  know  all  about  God  except  one  thing,  and  that  one 
thing  you  can  never  find  out  except  from  Christ.  It  is  the 
one  thing  that  he  teaches.  I  knew  all  else  before ;  I  only 
learned  from  him  the  one  thing,  —  it  is  that  God  loves  me. 
For  I  know  it,  I  know  it,  and  I  love  him  who  first  loved  me. 

"  He  takes  away  all  fear.  Can  I  fear  to  die  ?  He,  be- 
fore whom  I  must  appear,  is  my  Saviour,  my  Redeemer. 
He  loves  me,  and  I  love  him.  I  shall  see  him,  and  shall 
dwell  in  his  presence  forever. 

"  Cineas,  philosophy  can  give  courage,  in  the  face  of  death, 
to  a  philosopher,  and  make  him  die  calmly ;  but  Christ  can 
take  away  all  fear  of  death  from  weak  women,  and  from 
little  children.     It  is  his  love  that  does  this. 

"  And  now  my  soul  clings  to  him.  He  supports  me.  I 
love  him,  and  have  no  fear.  Oh,  that  you  had  this  love,  you 
would  then  know  that  all  you  seek  for  is  found  in  him." 

Such  were  the  words  which  Helena  spoke  at  intervals, 
not  continuously,  with  frequ<  "^  pauses  from  weakness  ;  and 
never  had  Cineas  heard  words  that  so  affected  his  heart. 

He  thought  within  himself  that  her  pure  spirit  already 
saw  things  unutterable,  and  that  her  bright  intellect  under- 
stood the  dark  mystery  of  death. 

It  did  not  need  this  new  scene  to  show  him  that  death  had 
no  terror  to  the  follower  of  Christ.  He  had  already  learned 
this  from  many  who  had  died  calmly,  murmuring  with  their 


m'  *'\^ ' 


Bereavements. 


337 


lai't  breath  the  name  of  their  Redeemer.  Nor  did  he  tliink 
much  of  mere  courage  or  cahniie^s  of  themselves  in  the  face 
of  death.  For  himself,  he  felt  that  he  could  die  calmly. 
Seneca  had  died  nobly ;  Petronius,  joyously.  But  this  he 
saw,  that  the  courage  and  the  joy  of  Helena  were  far  differ- 
ent from  anything  which  this  world  could  give.  They  were 
more  than  sublime  ;  —  they  were  divine. 

As  he  had  desired  before  to  be  a  Christian,  so  now  he 
desired  it  still  more.  There  were  ditficnlties  in  the  way,  the 
cause  of  which  he  knew  not  yet,  but  was  destined  to  find  out 
one  day,  and  so,  as  Helena  spoke,  she  seemed  glorified  in  his 
eyes,  and  he  looked  and  listened  as  one  might  listen  to  an 
angel,  and  longed  to  be  able  to  share  that  exalted  sentiment, 
and  speak  in  that  heavenly  language. 

So  the  days  passed,  and  Helena  faded  away  speaking  lesa 
and  less,  in  her  last  thoughts  blending  together  her  husband 
and  her  brother. 

Then  delirium  came.  Her  mind  wandered  back  to  her  hap- 
py girlhood.  Again  she  rambled  with  Cineas  amid  the  beau- 
tiful scenes  of  her  home,  oi'  sat  and  talked  the  hours  away 
under  the  plane-trees.  Her  voice  murmured  the  words  of 
old  songs,  the  songs  of  childhood,  the  sweet,  the  never-for- 
gotten;  and  Cineas,  as  he  listened  to  that  wan-'  ^nng  fancy, 
felt  all  his  own  thoughts  go  back  to  that  bright  season,  and  a 
longing,  yearning  homesickness  grew  over  his  heart.  Oh, 
to  break  the  barriers  of  time,  and  go  back  in  the  years  to 
such  a  youth  amid  such  happiness!  But  youth  had  gone, 
and,  with  Helena,  happiness  also  would  go.  Could  he  but  take 
the  feeling  of  Helena  into  his  heart,  and  look  up  to  heaven 
as  she  loved  to  look,  and  call  that  his  home,  as  she  loved  to 
call  it.     Then  the  past  might  yield  in  charm  to  the  future. 

Strange  it  was  that  in  her  delirium  she  did  not  know  her 
husband,  but  always  knew  Cineas.  It  gave  a  mournful  con- 
solation to  his  mourning  heart  to  know  that  the  one  whom 
he  had  always  loved  best  of  all  on  earth,  could  tlr  forget 
all  others  but  him.     Thus  the  memories  of  childh^^J  out- 


338 


Bereavements, 


liist  all  others,  and  in  delirium  while  the  present  fades,  the 
past  iivoh. 

"  Take  me  away,  Clneas,  away.  I  want  to  go  home. 
Why  do  you  keep  me  here  ?  " 

She  looked  with  a  strange  imploring  expression  as  she 
said  this.  It  was  her  Athenian  home,  the  home  of  her  child- 
hood, to  which  she  wisheil  to  return.  She  did  not  know 
where  she  was,  and  did  not  recognize  this  room  or  this  house 
as  hers. 

"  Will  you  not  go  home  Boon,  Cineas,  and  take  me  with 
you  ?  I  am  frightened.  What  am  I  doing  here  in  this 
strange  place?     Take  me  home.     I  want  to  go  home." 

Ah,  [)oor,  weary  s[)irit,  thought  Cineas,  as  he  tried  to  soothe 
her.     You  will  indeed  go  home,  hut  not  to  Athens. 

"  You  shall  go  home,  O  my  sister,"  said  he. 

"  When  ?  "  she  asked  nervously  and  eagerly. 

"  When?  Soon,  too  soon,"  he  murmured,  as  the  hot  tears 
poured  from  his  eyes. 

Home  !  Oh  yes !  not  long  did  she  have  to  remain,  not  long 
to  breathe  forth  her  sighs,  and  implore  Ciiieas  to  take  her 
thence.  Her  home  was  awaiting  her,  and  she  gained  what 
she  wished,  for  she  was  taken  home,  but  it  was  to  a  diviner 
home,  and  a  fairer  clime,  and  a  more  radiant  company  than 
all  those  which  dwelt  in  her  memory,  —  a  home  beyond  the 
stars,  —  a  home  eternal  in  the  heavens. 


XXXII. 


OFF  TO  THE   WARS, 

|j|HE  blow  that  had  fallen  upon  the  two  friends  over- 
wholmed  both.  Each  l::ul  his  own  sorrows,  and 
neither  ventured  to  hint  to  the  other  a  single  word 
of  consolation. 

For  some  time  Labeo  seemed  to  be  bewildered 
by  his  grief,  and  lived  and  moved  about  in  a  state 
of  stupor  almost.  Gradually  the  stupor  lessened,  but 
only  to  make  grief  more  keen.  The  gloom  seemed  to  gather 
more  darkly  around,  and  every  ray  of  light  to  have  departed 
forever. 

Gradually  the  two  friends  became  drawn  toward  each 
other,  and  though  at  first  each  had  shut  himself  up  in  soli- 
tude, yet  the  force  of  sympathy  brought  them  together. 
They  said  little  or  nothing.  They  walked  over  the  grounds, 
or  rode  over  the  country,  or  sat  in  the  hall,  commonly  in 
silence,  saying  nothing  but  the  fewest  and  most  customary 
words,  and  yet  with  all  this  taciturnity  each  at  last  looked 
out  for  the  society  of  the  other,  and  felt  restless  without  it. 

All  else  had  gone  ;  friendship  was  left,  —  the  strong  friend- 
ship of  two  noble  natures,  began  in  boyhood,  cemented  and 
strengthened  through  years.  Each  knew  the  other's  charac- 
ter to  the  inmost  heart,  and  each  had  proved  the  other's 
fidelity.  In  his  present  grief  each  knew  that  the  other  suf- 
fered. The  bereavement  of  Cineas  had  not  been  twofold, 
like  that  of  Labeo,  but  his  sensitive  nature  made  his  feelings 
keen  and  his  anguish  most  acute.  There  was  a  great  blank 
in  his  life,  and  he  knew  not  how  it  could  ever  be  filled.     For 

(339) 


340 


Off  to  the  Wars. 


he  had  been  so  accustomed  to  rely  upon  Helena's  sympathy 
even  when  they  were  absent,  that  it  seemed  a  necessity,  and 
now,  since  he  had  lost  it,  he  felt  sensible  of  its  value.     Where 
again  could  he  ever  find  so  pure  and  elevated  a  soul,  and  one, 
too,  that  was  so  thoroughly  in  unison  with  his? 

Yet  there  was  another  whose  grief  was  not  less  keen  than 
that  of  these, — a  ruder,  stronger  natui'c,  whose  despair  showed 
itself  in  the  mute  agony  of  his  face.     This  was  Galdus. 

Through  the  last  few  months  he  had  only  one  thought  in 
life,  and  that  was  Marcus.  When  the  little  boy  could  no 
long(  r  walk  about,  Labeo  had  taken  away  from  Galdus  that 
charge  which  was  so  sweet  to  the  latter,  yet  the  father,  in 
his  deep  love  and  sad  foreboding,  was  not  unmindful  of  that 
other  strong  love  that  lived  in  the  stout  heart  of  the  Briton. 
He  was  allowed  to  have  a  share  in  the  care  of  the  sick  boy, 
and  precious  were  those  moments  when  Galdus  was  allowed 
to  bear  so  loved  a  burthen. 

When  Labeo  carried  his  son  about  the  grounds,  then  Gal- 
dus followed  him  with  his  eyes,  and  stood  ever  on  the  watch, 
waiting  eagerly  for  some  opportunity  of  doing  something,  it 
mattered  little  what ;  but  anything  which  he  could  find  an 
occasion  to  do  afforded  him  the  highest  happiness. 

When  Marcus  could  no  longfu-  go  out  in  the  open  air,  then 
Galdus  stood  or  walked  all  the  time  near  to  his  room,  till  at 
last  Labeo  had  pity  on  him,  and  allowed  him  to  remain  in- 
side the  chamber.  There  was  in  the  bearing  of  the  Briton 
that  stoicism  which  is  peculiar  to  the  savage,  but  those  who 
watched  him  saw  that  his  fortitude  often  broke  down,  and 
whenever  his  eyes  met  those  of  Marcus,  the  stern  rigidity  of 
his  featured  relaxed  and  softened  into  an  expression  of 
speechless  love. 

At  last  all  was  over,  and  Galdus  stood  up  like  the  image 
of  Despair.  He  remained  for  days,  and  sometimes  for 
nights,  at  the  grave  -)f  his  lost  idol,  as  though  his  fidelity 
could  recall  the  departed.  His  instinct  of  love  bound  him 
to  that  place  where  he  saw  tlie  grave  of  that  love,  and  whilo 


Off  to  the  Wars. 


341 


Labco  and  Cineas  struggled  with  their  grief  iii  the  house, 
Gulduri  nursed  his  silent  agony  at  the  sei)ulclire.  Thei-e  the 
two  friends  sometimes  encountered  him,  and  saw  that  third 
giief  which  might  rival  theirs.  At  such  times  they  only 
looked,  but  passed  by,  and  spoke  no  word. 

After  a  time  a  change  came  over  Labeo.  His  first  stupor 
passed  away,  but  there  came  in  its  place  a  vivid  conscious- 
ness of  his  painful  loss.  It  aroused  within  him  a  violent 
sorrow,  which  found  expression  in  curses  against  Heaven. 
It  made  him  defiant  against  fate,  and  resentful,  as  though  his 
aftliction  had  been  a  wrong.  The  thought  of  his  own  im- 
potence made  him  more  passionate.  But  he  could  do  noth- 
ing. There  was  no  one  on  whom  he  could  wreak  revenge, 
and  that  Heaven  which  he  cursed  was  out  of  his  I'each. 

One  morning  he  joined  Cineas  in  the  garden,  with  his  face 
more  pallid  than  usual,  and  bloodshot  eyes,  and  a  wild  rest- 
lessness in  his  face  that  started  his  friend. 

"  Cineas,"  said  Labeo,  and  it  was  almost  the  first  word 
that  he  had  spoken  to  hi  m  deliberately  for  months,  "  I  can 
stand  this  no  longer.     I  will  kill  myself  if  this  goes  on." 

Cineas  looked  at  him  in  sad  wonder,  but  said  nothing. 

"  I  have  already  made  the  attempt,"  said  the  other.  ''  It 
was  this  morning,  —  at  dawn,"  —  he  spake  at  intervals.  "I 
had  passed  a  night  which  was  more  sleei)less  than  usual,  and 
my  heart  ached.  A  sudden  impulse  came  over  me.  I  will 
put  an  end  to  this  at  once  and  forever.  Why  should  I  live 
if  1  have  to  live  thus  ?  And  a  great  longing  came  over  me 
for  death. 

"  I  rose  and  took  the  dagger  of  my  ancestor,  which  I  have 
always  carried,  and  made  a  libation  to  Jupiter  the  Deliverer, 
and  then  stretched  out  my  arm,  so  as  to  plunge  the  dagger 
into  my  heart.  —  But,"  —  and  Labeo's  voice  became  low  and 
broken,  with  emotion,  — "  suddenly  I  thought  I  heard  a 
voice,  —  not  of  this  world,  —  a  voice  that  spoke  to  my  soul 
only,  —  it  was  hn  voice,  —  it  said,  '  Father,  we  will  meet 
again.' 

'29  * 


342  Off  to  the  Wars. 

"  And  the  dagger  dropped  from  my  hand.  O  my  son ! " 
groaned  Labeo,  clasping  his  hands,  "  did  you  see  me  from 
among  the  stars,  and  come  to  stay  my  hand  ?  I  accept  the 
omen,  whether  it  be  my  own  delusion  or  the  voice  of  the 
loved.  I  will  not  die  like  a  coward  to  avoid  suffering.  If 
it  were  shame  that  was  before  me,  then  I  would  follow  my 
ancestor. 

"  But  I  must  put  an  end  to  this.  I  cannot  live  thus. 
Every  day  makes  it  worse,  and  I  suffer  more  now  than 
when  the  blow  first  fell." 

"  Do  you  feel  thus,  O  friend  of  my  soul  ?  "  said  Cineas,  in 
low,  melancholy  tones.  "  If  so,  then  there  is  an  alternative 
for  both  of  us,  —  for  you  and  for  me :  let  us  go." 

"  Go  ?     Where  ?  " 

"  Away,  —  away,  —  anywhere  away  from  this.  To  an 
active  life,  where  we  can  fc  ;et  all  this,  and  forget  ourselves. 
To  Judea." 

"  Judea,"  said  Lnbeo,  not  quite  understanding  him. 

"  Yes,"  said  Cineas,  with  a  vehemence  that  was  unusual 
with  him.  "To  Judea,  —  after  the  legions,  — to  war.  For 
war  is  there.  The  whole  land  has  risen  in  rebellion,  and 
there  will  be  fighting  oUch  as  the  world  has  not  seen  since 
Philippi.  That  will  force  something  else  in  our  thoughts. 
We  will  follow  the  eagles  of  Rome.  You  shall  lead  your 
legions  to  victory.  We  will  fight  side  by  side,  and  scale  the 
walls  of  those  rock-built  cities  that  are  perched  on  the  sum- 
mits of  the  mountains.  Then  if  we  want  death,  it  will  come 
soon  enough,  I  doubt  not,  and  if  life  is  desirable  it  will  be  a 
life  with  thoughts  that  are  more  endurable  then  those  which 
we  have  here.  The  war  has  begun,  and  armies  have  already 
marched  there  to  avenge  the  defeat  of  Cestius.  I  heard 
about  it  yesterday  in  the  town." 

Then  Cineas,  fearful  that  Labeo  might  hesitate,  spoke  of 
his  old  legion,  which  had  gone  there,  and  of  those  old  tent- 
companions,  with  whom  Labeo  had  already  shared  the  perils 
of  campaigning,  and  the  stern  excitement  of  war.     At  the 


Off  to  the  Wars. 


343 


sound  of  his  insidious  eloquence  Labeo  felt  all  his  old  mili- 
tary ardor  stir  within  his  breast ;  recollections  that  had  long 
slumbered  awakened  into  fierce  and  active  life  ;  all  the  soldier 
was  aroused  within  him ;  he  recalled  the  glorious  old  days 
of  the  campaign  and  the  fervid  heat  of  the  battle  ;  visions  of 
Roman  standards,  and  gleaming  arms,  and  white  tents  arose, 
before  him ;  his  eyes  sparkled,  his  nostrils  quivered,  and  his 
heart  beat  fast. 

"  Away ;  let  us  go,"  he  cried,  interrupting  Cineas.  "  That 
is  the  true  life  for  a  man  and  a  Roman.  Why  do  I  stand  here 
whimpering  like  a  child,  when  I  have  all  this  before  me  ?  Let 
us  hasten.  We  will  go  together.  You  are  not  a  soldier,  Cin- 
eas, but  you  are  a  brave  man,  and  you  know  the  use  of  arms, 
and  1  will  show  you  how  to  lead  Roman  armies." 

"  1  will  go  with  you,  and  with  no  other,  in  life,  or  in 
death,  to  the  end  of  the  world.  If  we  die  let  us  die  nobly 
like  men,  in  battle,  and  not  in  our  beds." 

At  the  stimulus  of  this  new  idea  the  two  friends  hastened 
their  departure.  Galdus  was  soon  informed  of  their  deter- 
mination.    They  asked  him  to  accompau}'^  them. 

Tlie  idea  had  as  much  power  over  the  heart  of  the  Briton 
as  it  had  exerted  over  Labeo. 

"  You  are  going  to  war  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Yes." 

The  eyes  of  Galdus  glowed. 

"  An<l  I  am  free  ?  " 

"  As  free  as  I  am." 

"  Then  I  will  go,  too,  but  not  with  you.  O  Labeo,  there 
are  other  wars  for  me.  I  am  a  Briton,  I  will  not  fight  under 
the  standards  of  Rome. 

"  I  am  a  Briton,  and  1  am  in  the  land  of  my  fathers.  I 
hear  the  voices  of  my  fathers  in  my  dreams,  and  they  call 
on  me  for  vengeance.  I  have  forgotten  them,  and  made  my 
ears  deaf  to  their  cries.  I  hear  them  now,  and  I  will 
obey. 

"Over  all  our  British  hills  the  tribes  are  yet  dwelling, 


\:\. 


344 


Off  to  the  Wars. 


uiid  ill  the  north  they  are  all  free.  If  I  am  a  free  man  I 
will  live  my  free  life  among  them. 

"  The  one  whom  I  adored  as  my  god  has  left  me,"  he  con- 
tinued, with  a  faltering  voice.  "  What  is  left  to  me  but  to 
go  back  to  my  old  gods  ?  My  people  want  me.  They  need 
defenders  yet.     I  will  tight  for  them,  and  die  for  them." 

Labeo  said  nothing.  He  thought  that  Galdus  would  go 
back  to  his  tribe,  and  throw  away  his  life  in  some  hopeless 
insurrection.  But  he  understood  the  man,  and  did  not  try  to 
change  his  resolution. 

"  1  will  not  wait  till  you  go,"  said  Galdus.  "  I  will  leave 
first,  and  at  once.  O  father  of  him  whom  I  adored,  let  me 
embrace  you  for  the  last  time,  then  leave  me  at  the  sepul- 
chre, and  before  dawn  I  will  go." 

The  Briton  then  embraced  Labeo,  and  turned  away.  All 
that  night  he  lay  near  the  tomb  of  Marcus.  In  the  morning 
they  looked  for  him,  but  he  had  gone. 

Labeo  and  Cineas  did  not  delay  long.  A  few  days  com- 
pleted I  heir  short  preparations,  and  then  they  quitted  the 
house,  and  soon  looked  back  upon  the  white  shores  of  Brit- 
ain as  tliey  sjjcd  over  the  waves. 

The  incidents  of  the  journey  distracted  their  thoughts, 
and  iirevented  them  from  brooding  over  their  grief  so  inces- 
santly as  they  had  done. 

Soon  they  reached  Rome. 

Then  Labeo  embraced  his  mother,  and  told  her  of  his 
determination.  The  venerable  lady  acquiesced,  for  she 
thought  it  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world.  Sympathiz- 
ing with  her  son  in  his  deep  grief,  she  was  glad  that  there 
was  an  opportunity  for  him  to  escape  from  it  in  the  cares  of 
an  active  campaign. 

Before  he  left,  he  made  final  arrangements  for  the  com- 
fort of  his  mother.  He  made  Julius  the  overseer  of  his 
estjite,  which  to  the  young  centurion  was  a  great  step  up- 
wards in  the  i)atlis  of  life,  and  urged  him  to  be  careful  for 
the  comfort  of  Sulpicia.      Lydia  was  already  clear  to  the 


I    ■  f 


Off  to  the  Wars. 


345 


venerable  lady,  for  she  had  learned  to  love  her  when  she 
was  living  at  the  villa,  and  with  her  companionship  Labeo 
fell  that  his  mother's  happiness  would  be  secure. 

Then  he  thought  of  that  faithful  servant  whose  fidelity 
had  already  been  proved  in  many  cases  for  many  years,  and 
as  all  his  preparations  now  were  final,  he  determined  to  see 
Isaac  free. 

When  he  announced  this  to  the  Jew,  he  was  surprised  at 
the  result.  A  flush  of  emotion  passed  over  his  face,  and  was 
instantly  succeeded  by  a  deathly  pallor.  The  Jew  fell  at 
Labeo's  feet. 

"  May  the  God  of  Abraham,  of  Isaac,  and  of  Jacob  give 
unto  you  his  richest  blessings  and  prolong  your  life,  and 
make  all  your  hopes  and  your  desires  fulfilled." 

Labeo  interrupted  him,  and  assured  him  that  he  had 
already  done  enough  to  deserve  it,  and  the  gratitude  which 
he  had  shown  was  a  rich  reward  for  this  freedom  which  he 
had  given.  "  But  why  this  joy  ?  I  thought  your  life  here 
Avas  happy.     You  always  seemed  content." 

"  Most  noble  Labeo.  The  exile  is  never  happy  or  con- 
tent. His  heart  is  breaking  always.  To  a  Jew,  his  country 
is  dearer  than  to  any  other.  And  for  me,  day  and  night 
have  I  wept  when  I  remembered  Zion.  But  I  have  trusted 
in  my  God,  and  he  is  the  rock  of  my  salvation.  He  has 
hear    my  prayer.     Praised  be  his  name." 

"  Bat  you  cannot  go  back  to  your  country  now." 

Isaac  cast  down  his  eyes. 

"  There  is  war  there." 

"  I  had  rather  die  there  than  live  elsewhere,"  replied  Isaac. 

"  Will  you  go  tiiere  ?  "  asked  Labeo,  in  surprise. 

"  You  will  not  prevent  me,"  cried  Isaac,  imph)ringly. 

"  Prevent  you  ?  never,  if  you  wish  to  go." 

Isaac  raised  his  head  and  said  nothing,  but  there  was  that 
in  his  heaving  brea.st,  and  flashing  eyes,  which  expressed 
unutterable  things.  Labeo  did  not  understand  il  then.  He 
found  out  the  meaning  afterwards. 


:f;ii 


XXXIII. 

NERO  IN   GREECE. 

EFORE  Clneas  had  left  Rome  for  Britain,  Nero  had 
experienced  an  extraordinary  revival  of  his  artistic 
and  literary  tastes.  For  some  time  he  had  divided 
his  time  between  voluptuous  excesses  and  ambitious 
schemes  for  enlarging  the  bounds  of  the  empire, 
when  a  circumstance  occurred  which  turned  all  his 
thoughts  to  another  direction. 
A  deputation  was  sent  from  the  cities  of  Greece,  which 
brought  to  Nero  the  victor's  crown  for  excellence  in  music. 
No  conceivable  thing  could  have  given  greater  pleasure  to 
him  than  this.  It  was  unexpected,  and  made  him  beside 
himself  with  joy.  He  received  the  deputies  with  the  warm- 
est welcome,  invited  them  to  his  table,  and  bestowed  upon 
them  every  honor  that  he  could  think  of.  lie  talked  with 
them  in  his  usual  strain  about  art  and  literature ;  he  sang  to 
tliem,  and  they  listened  with  rapture,  and  gave  him  the 
greatest  a})plause.  As  Greeks,  and  as  guests  of  Cwsar,  they 
were  not  spai'ing  in  their  adulation,  and  their  delicate  flattery 
filled  him  with  delight.  He,  in  his  turn,  regarded  them  with 
admiration  on  account  of  their  taste,  which  made  them  ^o 
aj)[)re('iate  his  fine  talents,  and  in  his  enthusiasm  neglected 
all  other  enjoyments  and  ail  public  business.  The  Greeks 
humored  him  to  the  top  of  his  bent,  and  at  huigth  urged 
him  earnestly  to  visit  Greece,  and  give  the  inhabitants  of 
that  country  an  oj)portunity  of  hearing  his  divine  voice,  tell- 
ing him  that  it  was  not  right  for  him  to  hide  his  splendid 
genius  in  a  country  like  Italy,  where  he  could  in  no  way  be 
.      (346) 


1!       I 


Nero  in  Greece. 


347 


appreciated,  and  assuring  liim  that  if  the  Greeks  could  only 
witness  his  marvellous  accomplishments,  they  would  give 
him  the  highest  prizes  in  all  their  games. 

The  prospect  of  such  brilliant  fame  as  this  dazzled  Nero 
completely,  and  drove  everything  else  out  of  his  thoughts. 
He  determined  to  visit  Greece,  and  began  to  make  his  prep- 
arations. These  were  carried  out  on  the  most  magnificent 
scale.  An  army  of  noble  youths,  five  thousand  in  numbel', 
headed  by  Tigellinus,  was  chosen  to  accompany  him.  In 
addition  to  these,  there  was  a  vast  number  of  all  the  most 
dissolute  and  worthless  characters  of  the  city.  But  this  host 
of  attendants  did  not  carry  arms ;  they  took  with  them  musi- 
cal instruments  only,  so  that  all  the  accompaniments  of  the 
expedition  might  be  in  keeping.  A  thousand  wagons  car- 
ried supplies,  and  these  were  drawn  by  mules  which  were 
shod  with  silver.  All  the  horses  were  decorated  with  the 
richest  trappings,  and  a  striking  feature  in  the  display  was 
presented  by  a  great  number  of  African  slaves  all  richly 
dressed,  and  with  costly  bracelets  on  their  arms. 

These  preparations  took  up  some  time,  but  at  length  he 
landed  in  Greece.  Then  he  made  arrangements  necessary 
for  the  success  of  his  enterprise.  The  games  of  Greece,  ac- 
cording to  immemorial  custom,  took  place  usually  on  different 
years,  but  Nero  could  not  wait  for  the  regular  period  of 
their  celebration.  He  therefore  issued  orders  that  all  should 
be  holderi  during  his  visit,  and  that  eftch  should  wait  till  his 
arrival  at  the  place.  Jealous  of  the  fame  of  those  men  who 
had  gained  prizes  in  former  ages  he  ordered  all  their  statues 
to  be  destroyed ;  yet  he  invited  all  the  most  eminent  artists 
then  living,  to  enter  into  competition  in  every  department  of 
art,  or  of  gymnastic  exercise,  whether  poetry,  or  music,  or 
running,  or  chariot-driving. 

Then  he  began  that  marvellous  tour  through  Gr^  ^,  vis- 
iting city  after  city,  and  exhibiting  himself  to  the  people. 
At  every  exhibition  care  was  taken  that  the  ,  i."  e  which 
was  expected  should  be  forthcoming.     H'    own  immediate 


\m\ 


1 

'1 

1 

348 


Nc7'o  in  Greece. 


followers  wore  distributed  among  the  audience  so  as  to  direct 
the  plaudits  of  the  rest.  The  applause  was  not  wanting. 
Every  exhibition  of  the  emperor  was  a  brilliant  triumph, 
and  Nero  gave  himself  up  completely  to  the  intoxication  of 
the  hour.  The  competitors  who  appeared,  confessed  them- 
selves vanquished  by  the  superior  genius  of  the  master  of 
the  world,  and  one  unhappy  man  who  had  the  folly  to  dispute 
*the  prize  was  dispatched  by  tlie  lictors  in  sight  of  the  assem- 
blage. A  slight  was  punished  as  treason.  Vespasian  hap- 
pened to  be  present  on  one  occasion  and  fell  asleep  during 
the  performance.  He  was  brnished  from  the  court  by  the 
indignant  emperor,  and  might  have  perished  for  his  bad 
taste  had  not  the  Jewish  war  required  his  services. 

While  the  people  gave  their  applause,  they  had  to  undergo 
a  painful  struggle  with  that  keen  sense  of  the  ridiculous 
which  distinguished  the  Greeks.  They  saw  this  performer 
make  his  appearance  with  all  the  affectation  of  a  pro- 
fessional favorite,  straining  his  voice,  rolling  his  eyes,  ris- 
ing on  his  toes,  losing  his  breath,  and  exerting  himself  till 
his  naturally  red  complexion  turned  crimson  and  purple. 
He  appeared  in  all  kinds  of  exercises ;  now  as  a  musician, 
now  as  a  tragedian,  and  at  another  time  as  a  charioteer. 
On  one  of  these  last  exhibitions  at  the  great  Olympic  games 
he  was  thrown  from  his  car,  and  had  to  leave  the  course 
unfinished.     He  gained  the  prize,  how^ever,  all  the  same. 

Thus  he  won  his  triumphs,  and  the  venerable  honors  of 
the  Nemean,  the  Pythian,  the  Isthmian,  and  the  Olympic 
games  were  all  heaped  upon  him.  In  all  his  performances 
he  gained  eighteen  hundred  different  crowns.  Of  all  these 
he  sent  back  to  Rome  the  most  glowing  accounts.  The 
senate,  as  usual,  passed  a  vote  of  thanks  to  the  gods,  and 
made  the  days  of  his  victories  public  festivals. 

Yet  it  was  not  all  triumph  even  to  Nero.  Amid  all  his 
festivities  it  was  possible  for  this  man  to  suffer  sometimes 
from  the  stings  of  a  guilty  conscience.  He  carried  for  years 
the  terrible  memory  of  his  mother's  murder,  and  confessed 


vi 


Nero  in  Greece. 


349 


once  flinf  lie  was  li:iniil('<l  by  her  ghost,  wliich  followed  liim 
with  whi[)«*  and  scorpions  like  one  of"  the  F'uries.  On  account 
of  these  i)angs  of  conscience  he  did  not  dare  to  visit  Athens, 
for  there  he  knew  he  would  see  the  ancient  temple,  and 
enclosure  of  the  Awful  Goddesses.  Sparta  was  also  unap- 
proachable to  him,  since  the  laws  of  Lycurgus  singled  out 
such  crimes  as  his  for  conspicuous  punishment.  He  did  not 
dare  to  visit  the  Eleusinian  mysteries,  for  the  crier  there 
warned  off  all  murderers  and  parricides.  Such  superstitious 
fears  as  these  ke[)t  him  thus  away  from  those  very  places  to 
which  his  tastes  would  have  first  led  him. 

During  his  expedition  his  extravagance  was  without  limit, 
and  in  order  to  satisfy  his  demands  worse  oppression  arose 
in  Rome.  Those  whom  he  left  behind  to  govern  in  his 
absence  were  only  too  glad  of  the  opportunity  of  practising 
tyranny  on  their  own  account.  Enormous  suras  of  money 
were  raised  by  means  of  the  greatest  cruelty  and  extortion, 
and  Rome  became  a  scene  of  plunder  and  bloodshed.  The 
richest  and  most  illustrious  men  of  Rome  were  marked  out 
as  victims,  and  ordered  to  despatch  themselves ;  a  common 
order  in  these  times,  which  no  one  one  ever  presumed  to 
disobey.  But  Nero  did  not  restrict  his  cruelty  to  Rome. 
His  love  for  Greece,  and  everything  Greek  did  not  at  all 
deter  him  from  plundering  the  country  of  his  love.  The 
very  cities  which  had  listened  to  his  voice,  and  given  their 
applause,  were  made  the  victims  of  his  rapacity,  and  the 
most  eminent  citizens  were  banished  or  put  to  death  so  that 
their  propeity  might  be  seized. 

Meantime  the  state  of  Rome  began  to  grow  alarming. 
Tlie  people  found  the  tyranny  of  Nero's  subordinates  unen- 
duiable,  and  loud  and  tierce  clamors  arose.  Despatches  were 
seuL  to  the  emperor  warning  him  of  the  stale  of  things,  and 
urging  his  return.  Nero,  however,  by  this  time  had  been 
excited  by  a  new  scheme,  which  was  to  cut  a  canal  through 
th(*  Isthmus  of  Corinth.  He  therefore  remained  longer,  so 
as  to  insure  the  accomplishment  of  this  work,  and  gain  by  it 

30 


Hi 

;i 

:(  i] 


350 


Nero  in  Greece, 


immortal  glory.  While  seeing  about  this,  he  still  continued 
his  public  exhibitions,  and  divided  his  time  between  bloody 
tragedies  in  real  life,  and  false  ones  on  the  stage. 

At  last,  however,  danger  increased  everywhere.  Rome 
was  on  tlie  point  of  insurrection.  Tlie  flame  began  to  spread 
elsewliere.  The  regent  Ilelius  left  Rome  in  alarm,  and  hur- 
rying over  to  Greece  came  to  Nero  at  Corinth.  The  report 
wliich  he  brought  back  rendered  a  further  stay  in  Greece 
impossible,  and  Nero  was  forced  to  quit  the  scene  of  his  glory 
after  having  been  there  about  a  year. 

Nero  arrived  at  Naples  first,  and  there  made  a  triumphant 
entry,  which  was  worthy  of  the  marvellous  genius  who  had 
carried  off  so  many  prizes.  Other  cities  repeated  the  scene 
of  triumph,  and  at  length  all  splendors  culminated  at  Rome. 
Before  him  there  passed  a  long  procession,  which  carried 
tiie  victorious  crowns  and  wreaths  which  he  had  won,  and 
held  aloft  inscriptions  which  proclaimed  the  splendid  genius 
of  the  great  Roman  who  had  comiuered  all  the  Greeks  in 
their  own  special  domain.  The  city  resounded  with  songs 
of  praise  and  sacred  hymns,  directed  to  Apollo,  the  presiding 
deity  of  music  and  poetry.  After  the  long  procession  there 
appeared  the  triumphal  car,  which  once  was  used  by  Augus- 
tus. There  sat  Nero,  and  by  his  side  Diodorus,  the  musician. 
Flowers  were  strewn  in  the  way  before  the  emperor.  Vic- 
tims were  offered  up,  and  the  smoke  of  the  sacrifice  and  of 
incense  arose,  and  the  streets  I'esounded  with  the  shouts  and 
acclamations  of  those  who  sought  to  express  by  fitting  cries 
the  most  appropriate  welcome  to  such  a  victor. 

Now,  amid  all  this,  there  was  one  thing  which  filled  Nero 
with  anger  and  resentment,  and  that  was  the  absence  of 
Cineas.  He  had  expected  that  he  would  have  been  the  first 
to  accompany  him  to  Greece,  to  share  his  triumphs  and  be- 
hold his  accomplishments.  Instead  of  that,  he  had  never 
made  his  appearance,  nor  even  sent  an  excuse.  In  an  ex- 
pedition of  this  kind  Cineas  was  all  important.  The  respect 
which  Nero  felt  for  his  splendid  attainments  increased  his 


Nero  in  Greece. 


351 


genius 


desire  that  he  should  be  present,  and  aggravated  his  di'jap- 
j)ointnieiit  at  his  absence.  At  first  he  tbought  timt  this  ab- 
senee  was  owing  to  the  jealousy  of  Tigellinus,  and  angrily 
charged  his  favorite  witb  the  offence  ;  but  from  the  represen- 
tations of  the  latter  he  learned  that  this  was  not  the  case. 

Amid  the  excitement  of  his  tour  through  Greece  he  made 
no  inquiries  after  Cineas ;  but  still,  to  the  very  la.«>t,  thought 
that  the  Athenian  would  niake  his  appearance.  lie  sincerely 
believed  that  Cineas  was  losing  the  highest  enjoyment  of 
which  he  was  capable,  in  not  hearing  his  own  divine  voice, 
and  often,  when  the  theatre  rang  with  the  acclamations  of 
thirty  thousand  voices,  he  thought  to  himself,  —  Oh,  if  Cineas 
were  here  ! 

But  month  after  month  passed  away,  and  still  Cineas  came 
not,  and  his  absence  grew  more  and  more  unaccountable. 
At  first  Nero  felt  no  resentment,  for  he  thought  that  Cineas 
would  be  suificiently  punished  by  learning  the  full  extent  of 
all  that  he  had  missed.  But  soon  resentment  came,  and  the 
thought  grew  up  in  the  mind  of  Nero  that  he  was  slighted  till 
the  thought  became  positive  suspicion,  and  suspicion  deep- 
ened into  conviction.  Then  his  rage  knew  no  bounds,  and  his 
soul  was  filled  by  one  all-consuming  desire  for  vengeance. 

Not  till  he  arrived  at  Rome  did  he  make  inquiries  after 
Cineas.  He  then  learned  all  the  facts,  —  that  Cineas  had 
gone  to  Britain,  and  then  returning  with  Labeo  had  set  out 
with  the  latter  for  Judea. 

This  completed  the  rage  of  Nero.  Cineas  had  known  that 
he  was  in  Greece  and  yet  had  chosen  to  go  to  Judea.  For 
what  ?  For  idle  curiosity.  Certainly  not  for  fighting. 
And  he  had  proved  himself  indifferent  to  the  genius  of  Cae- 
sar.    It  was  a  slight,  an  insult.     He  should  die ! 

The  very  first  thing  that  he  did  was  to  send  off"  a  com- 
mand for  the  arrest  of  Cineas,  and  his  transportation  to 
Rome  for  trial. 

"  He  shall  die  this  time,"  said  Nero  to  Tigellinus.  "  I  will 
try  and  see  if  death  cannot  be  made  terrible  even  to  him." 


•   XXXIV. 


THE  END  OF  NERO. 

HE  applause  which  Nero  had  heard  in  the  streets 
of  Rome  was  destined  to  be  the  hist  that  was  offered 
to  thiit  mixture  of  trajredy  and  eomedy  whieli  eom- 
posed  his  life.  Hardly  had  he  returned  when  he 
discovenul  a  most  dangerous  conspiracy.  This  he 
crusiied,  and  then,  thinking  that  his  future  was  se- 
cured, he  determined  to  leave  the  dangei's  of  the 
capital,  and  enjoy  himself  in  a  safer  place.  He  therefore 
went  to  Naples,  and  gave  himself  up  for  a  time  to  his  pas- 
sions, and  his  music.  There  he  found  everything  to  his 
tiiste.  His  soldiers  coidd  overawe  the  populace  of  an  infe- 
rior town.  The  beauty  of  the  surrounding  country  gratified 
him.  The  scenery  of  Naples  was  always  agreeable  to  him, 
and  the  delights  of  Baiie  were  close  at  hand. 

But  his  enjoyment  here  was  only  for  a  short  time.  The 
whole  world  was  roused,  and  rose  up  to  free  itself  from  an 
oppression  which  was  not  only  terrible  but  also  contemptible. 
For  some  time  there  had  been  trouble  in  Gaul,  and  here  the 
first  movements  took  place.  There  was  a  man  named  Vin- 
dex,  who  was  descended  from  the  old  kings  of  Aquitania,  who 
now  came  forward  prominently  as  the  deliverer  of  a  world. 
Actuated  either  by  hatred  of  tyranny,  or  by  i)ersonal  ambi- 
tion, or  by  both,  he  determined  to  cast  down  Nero  from  the 
throne  which  he  had  disgraced.  He  wrote  letters  to  the 
governors  of  the  surrounding  provinces,  and  among  others 
to  Galba,  who  commanded  in  Spain,  proposing  the  destruc- 
tion of  Nero.     Galba  was  the  most  powerful  and  the  most 

(352) 


The  End  of  Nero. 


353 


eminent  of  these.  lit;  belon<jjeJ  to  the  Sulpiciun  fainiiy,  and 
was  therefore,  to  some  extent,  rehited  to  Liibeo.  lie  was  a 
well-known  soldier,  and  hi.s  name  whs  among  the  most  enu< 
nent  of  the  time.  lie  received  the  proposals  of  Vindex  with 
much  irresolution,  and  neither  accepted  them  nor  declined 
them.  But  the  other  {jjovernors  all  refused  to  join  Vindex, 
either  from  fear  or  loyalty,  and  sent  his  letters  to  Nero. 

Vindex,  however,  pursued  his  design.  He  went  aroni.J 
among  the  (Jraiils  and  aroused  them.  Soon  a  league  was 
formed,  and  he  found  himself  at  the  head  of  a  powerful 
army. 

Galbu  remained  cautious  and  irresolute.  At  lengtli  ho 
called  an  assembly  of  the  people,  at  New  Carthage,  and 
found  them  so  hostile  to  Nero  that  they  saluted  him  as  em- 
peror on  the  spot. 

Nero  heard  all,  but  tried  to  shut  his  eyes  to  the  danger. 
He  used  to  talk  for  a  short  time  each  day  to  his  frientls 
about  the  affairs  of  state,  and  then,  finding  the  subject  ex- 
tremely unpleasant,  he  would  take  them  off  to  play  to  them, 
or  exhibit  his  fine  artistic  talents.  He  was  particuhuly 
proud  of  a  machine  which  played  music  by  the  action  of 
water,  and  jocularly  remarked  that  he  intended  to  exhibit  it 
on  the  stage  if  Vindex  would  let  him. 

But  gradually  the  news  grew  more  and  more  alarming. 
Galba  had  at  length  decided  against  him  without  reserve. 
Vindex  was  growing  more  powerful  every  day,  and  had  scat- 
tered incendiary  proclamations  everywhere,  in  which  Nero 
was  called  "  -^nobarbus,"  and  a  "  vile  comedian."  The 
name  iEnobarbus  belonged  to  Nero's  father,  and  was  par- 
ticularly hateful,  but  it  was  nothing  as  an  epithet  compared 
with  the  other  words,  "  vile  comedian."  When  he  first  h  ard 
it  he  was  at  a  banquet,  and  in  his  rage  he  leaped  up,  over- 
throwing the  banqueting  table.  He  at  once  wrote  to  the 
senate,  and  to  stimulate  them  still  more  he  added,  "  Judge, 
O  Conscript  Fathers,  of  the  insolence  of  Vindex.  .  .  .  He 
has  dared  to  say  that  I  have  a  bad  voice,  and  play  ill  on  the 
30* 


llt^i 


354 


The  End  of  Nero, 


lyre."  The  senate  at  once  prepared  to  exert  the  power  of 
the  state.  They  proclaimed  Galba  a  public  enemy,  and  set 
a  reward  on  the  head  of  Vindex. 

Orders  were  given  to  different  generals  to  march  against 
the  rebels.  Among  others  Virginias  Kufus  had  received  such 
commands,  and  prepared  to  obey  them.  His  own  soldiers 
hated  Nero,  and  offered  him  the  em})ire.  Whatever  were 
his  ultimate  objects  he  determined,  however,  to  march  against 
Vindex,  and  this  he  accordingly  did.  Tlu^  armies  came  to- 
gether and  stood  opposite  each  other,  when  Vindex  re<iuesied 
an  interview.  The  interview  took  j)lace,  and  Virginius  made 
some  kind  of  agreement  with  the  rebel  chief,  and  began  to 
withdraw  his  army,  when  suddenly  the  soldiiTs,  misunder- 
standing the  movement,  and  animated  by  hate  to  the  Gauls, 
made  an  attack  of  their  own  accord.  The  battle  soon  be- 
came general.  The  Gauls  were  defeated  and  tied,  and  Vin- 
dex, in  dejection,  threw  himself  upon  his  sword. 

Galba  heard  of  this  with  despair,  but  Nero  was  triumphant. 
As  the  tidings  had  grown  more  and  more  alarming,  Nero 
had  become  conscious  of  his  perilous  position,  and  had  sent 
out  commands  to  different  armies,  to  recall  them  and  concen- 
trate them  against  the  conuiion  enemy.  He  had  also  left 
Naples  and  returned  to  Rome.  Then  the  news  came  of  tiie 
destruction  of  Vindex  and  his  army,  and  the  emperor,  in  a 
transj)ort  of  joy,  took  his  harp,  and  tuning  it  burst  forth  into 
songs  of  triumph. 

But  all  the  world  was  now  aroused.  All  Rome  was  a 
state  of  discontent,  and  ripe  for  rebellion.  Nero,  in  his  self- 
complacency,  was  quite  unconscious  that  he  had  given  cause 
for  hatred,  but  rather  liked  to  think  of  himself  as  a  most  ad- 
mirable and  rather  jmpular  character,  guilty  perhaps  ov'  one 
or  iwo  crimes,  but  on  the  whole  worthy  of  admiration.  He 
cc.\side:  ;d  that  his  triumphs  in  Greece  of  them^  'ves  consti- 
tuted an  unequalled  claim  on  the  gratitude  of  the  people. 
But  the  courtiers  thought  difl'erenlly.  They  could  see  the 
impen  ling  storm,  and  oi'  tiieiu  all  none  saw  it  so  clearly  as 


T 


The  End  of  JVcro. 


355 


»wer  of 
and  Bet 

aj^uinst 
red  such 
soldiers 
tr  were 
I  against 
•anie  Uh 
eciuesled 
us  made- 
jegan  to 
lisunder- 
le  Gauls, 
soon  be- 
and  Vin- 

unphant. 
ing,  Nero 
had  sent 

concen- 
also  left 

e  of  tlio 
ror,  in  a 
[brth  into 

livas        a 

his  sclf- 

|en  cause 

niost  ad- 

oi'  one 

hn.     He 

Is  consti- 

people. 

see  the 

[early  as 


Tigellinus.  This  man,  true  to  his  character,  when  he  saw 
the  declining  fortunes  of  his  master,  uetennined  not  merely 
to  desert  him,  but  to  accelerate  1.;.;  ruin.  In  company  with 
anoUier,  Nymphidius  by  imme,  they  formed  a  plot  and  suc- 
ceeded in  exciting  rebellion  among  the  Pnv!torian  Guanls. 
They  espoused  the  cause  of  Galba,  and  by  means  of  bribes 
and  dazzling  promises  seduced  the  alhtgiance  of  these  men. 
Soon  all  was  accomplished,  and  Nero's  strongest  reliance  had 
fallen  aw.iy. 

Nero,  in  the  mean  time,  was  sensible  of  the  uinversal  dis- 
alleetion.  The  senate  exhibited  it,  the  people,  and  the 
guards.  Fear  entered  into  his  soul.  Terror  and  the  desire 
for  vengeance  actuated  him  by  turns.  He  thought  at  one 
time  of  setting  the  city  on  iire  again,  and  letti<ig  loose  the 
wild  beasts  of  the  amphitheatre  among  the  populace,  while, 
in  the  confusion,  he  would  ily  to  Egypt.  This  was  discovered 
and  reported  publicly,  and  served  to  increase  the  public  ex- 
asperation. 

Tigellinus  and  Nymphidius  then  saw  that  the  time  had 
come.  V*\\\  they  were  un\  illing  to  go  forward  i)rominently, 
and  chose  rather  to  work  upon  the  fears  of  Nero.  They 
tiierefore  sought  him,  with  dejected  countenances,  and  told 
liiin  that  all  was  lost ;  that  the  people  and  the  guards  were 
on  the  point  o''  rising ;  that  his  only  safety  lay  in  flight,  and 
that  he  had  not  a  moment  to  lose. 

Despair  now  canie  to  the  falling  monarch.  There  was  no 
longer  any  hope  of  retrieving  his  for  times.  The  soldiers 
whom  he  liad  recalled  were  in  j)art  out  of  reach,  and  in  part 
disaltected.  lie  looked  everywhere  for  help,  but  found  none, 
lie  wandered  about  the  palace,  not  knowing  where  to  fly  or 
what  to  do.  Then  the  memories  of  his  crimes  recurred  to 
liis  mind,  and  above  all  the  foul  murder  of  his  dearest  rela- 
tives„  Still,  even  in  hi>.  anguish,  the  ruling  passion  of  his 
life  was  visible,  and  when  he  gave  utterance  to  his  despair 
he  did  so  in  a  line  from  the  Qidipus  of  Sophocles,  which 
lie  used  to  speak  on  the  stage. 


3S^ 


The  End  of  Nero. 


"  My  father,  mother,  wife,  they  bid  me  die!  " 

He  tried  to  get  a  ship  to  carry  him  to  Egypt,  and  ordered 
one  to  be  prepared  at  Ostia.  In  vain.  No  one  would  obey 
his  orders.  One  of  the  soldiers,  seeing  his  terror,  quoted  a 
line  of  Virgil  to  him. 

•'  And  is  it  then  so  dread  a  thing  to  die?  " 

He  then  tried  to  take  poison  which  had  been  prepared 
for  him,  but  could  not  muster  sufficient  courage.  He  svent 
to  his  room,  and  threw  himself  on  his  couch.  His  anguir^h 
was  terrible.  He  called  for  some  one  to  dispatch  him ;  but 
finding  no  one  willing,  he  exclaimed,  "  My  friends  desert 
me,  and  I  cannot  find  an  enemy."  Then  he  rushed  toward 
the  Tiber  with  the  intention  of  drowning  himself;  then  he 
came  back  again,  unable  to  do  so,  and  resolved  to  sail  to 
Spain,  and  beg  his  life  from  Galba.  But  no  shi[)  would  take 
him  to  Spain.  Confused  and  bewildered,  he  thought  over 
scores  of  plans,  but  none  were  feasible.  He  thought  of 
going  forth  dressed  as  a  suppliant,  and  using  his  well  known 
eloquence  in  a  pathetic  appeal  to  the  people ;  bu  Jie  fear  of 
that  people's  fury  deterred  him.  There  in  his  palace  stood 
the  emperor  of  the  world,  with  no  enemy  in  sight,  but  con- 
scious that  all  the  world  was  now  his  enemy,  without  any 
hope  of  flight  or  escape. 

"  Is  there  no  hiding-place  where  I  may  have  time  to  think 
about  what  I  may  do  ?  "  he  cried. 

One  of  his  freedmen,  named  Phaon,  offered  to  take  him  to 
a  place  a  few  miles  away  from  the  city,  where  he  could  hide 
for  a  time.  Nero  eagerly  accepted  the  offer.  He  hurried 
off*,  without  shoes,  without  robes,  and  with  nothing  but  his 
tunic.  He  threw  an  old  cloak  ovei'  him  as  a  disguise,  and 
covered  his  face  so  as  not  to  be  recognized.  Three  others 
besides  Phaon  accompanied  him. 

This  was  the  way  in  ^yhich  he  passed  his  last  night. 

At  daybreak  the  Praetorian  guards  met  and  proclaimed 
Galba.     The  senate  confirmed  their  nomination.     They  then 


The  End  of  Nero. 


357 


ordered 
lid  obey 
quoted  a 


prepared 
He  svent 
angiiif^li 
liim;  but 
lis  det^ert 
;d  toward 
;  tlien  he 
to  sail  to 
muld  take 
udit  over 
louiJjbt  of 
ell  known 
he  fear  of 
lace  stood 
t,  but  cou- 
jthout  any 

le  to  think 

like  him  to 
could  hide 
le  hurried 
1<T  but  his 
^uise,  ind 
[•ee  others 

rht. 

Iroclaimed 
:hey  then 


declared  Nero  a  public  enemy,  and  condemned  him  to  death 
according;  to  the  rigorous  laws  of  the  old  republic. 

Meanwhile,  Nero  hurried  off  to  Phaon's  villa.  As  he  rode, 
he  heard  the  shouts  that  arose  from  the  Praetorian  camp. 
4.  laborer  in  a  field  by  the  roadside  started  as  they  passed 
and  said,  "  See,  these  men  are  pursuing  Nero."  F'arther  on 
a  dead  body  lay  in  the  road,  at  the  sight  of  which  his  horse 
started.  Arriving  at  a  distance  from  the  house,  they  stopped 
the  horses,  and,  dismounting,  they  crossed  a  field  covered 
with  rushes.  Phaon  then  wished  to  conceal  Nero  in  a  sand- 
pit till  lie  prepared  a  subterranean  passage  into  the  house. 
But  Nero  refused,  for  he  sfiid  that  would  be  burying  himself 
alive.  A  hole  was  soon  made  in  the  lower  part  of  the  wall 
of  the  house,  and  Nero  crept  through.  He  was  led  to  a  dirty 
room,  and  lay  himself  down  on  a  mean  bed  with  a  tattered 
coverlet  thrown  over  him.  They  brought  here  some  bread, 
but  the  sight  of  it  made  him  sick  ;  and  the  only  water  which 
they  could  get  was  foul  in  the  extreme.  Of  this,  however, 
he  tasted  a  little. 

All  saw  that  concealment  or  safety  was  impossible.  After 
a  time  they  told  Nero  this,  and  advised  him  to  kill  himself. 
This  was  his  only  escape  from  the  vengeance  of  his  enemies. 
He  knew  this  well,  but  death  was  terrible,  and  he  tried  to 
postpone  it  as  long  as  possible. 

Before  leaving  RoiTie,  Phaon  had  arranged  with  one  of 
his  servants  to  bring  the  news  of  the  city.  While  they  were 
waiting,  the  messenger  came  bringing  some  documents.  Nero 
seized  them  eagerly,  and  read  the  proclamation  of  the  senate, 
in  which  lie  was  to  be  punished  by  the  old  republican  law. 

"  What  kinct  of  death  is  that  ?  "  he  asked.  «  What  is  the 
ancient  custom  ?  " 

Phaon  at  first  hesitated,  but  at  length  being  urged,  he  re- 
pli»  d,  — 

"  By  the  law  of  the  republic,  the  man  who  suffers  death  us  a 
public  enemy,  has  his  head  fastens  between  two  stakes,  entire 
ly  naked,  and  is  thus  beaten  to  deatli  by  the  lictor's  rods." 


Ilii 


358 


The  End  of  Nero. 


Nero  shuddered  and  said  nothing.  Then  he  drew  two 
daggers  which  he  had  brought  with  him,  and  stood  up  brand- 
ishing one  in  each  hand.  Then  he  tried  the  points  of  each, 
after  wliich  he  extended  his  arms  once  more  and  stood  for 
a  moment  summoning  up  all  his  resolution.  All  who  were 
present  expected  that  he  would  strike  himself  at  that  mo- 
ment to  the  heart. 

But  Nero  after  a  few  moments  calmly  put  back  both  dag- 
gers into  their  sheaths,  and,  turning  to  one  of  the  attendants, 
said,  — 

"  Sing  the  funeral  dirge,  and  offer  the  last  rites  to  your 
friend." 

The  one  whom  he  addressed  sang  the  dirge,  and  Nero 
listened  with  evident  emotion.     Then  there  was  a  silence. 

At  last  Nero  cried,  — 

"  Why  will  not  one  of  you  kill  himself  and  show  me  how 
to  die  ?  " 

None  of  them,  however,  complied  with  this  invitation,  but 
sat  looking  at  the  floor. 

Then  Nero  folded  his  arms,  and  looking  at  each  one  burst 
into  tears. 

But  after  a  while  he  started  up  and  said,  — 

"Nero,  Nero,  this  is  infamy!  You  linger  in  disgrace; 
this  is  not  the  time  for  sorrowful  emotions ;  the  time  demands 
manly  courage." 

But  the  courage  which  he  desired  did  not  seem  to  come, 
and  he  stood  irresolute,  now  fumbling  at  his  daggers,  and 
now  pacing  up  and  down  the  small  chamber. 

At  last  he  stopped  and  looked  fiercely  at  his  attendants. 

"  You,"  said  he,  "  are  cowards  and  traitors.  If  you  were 
not  you  would  show  me  how  to  die.  Oh  if  there  were  one 
here,  whom  I  have  known.  For  I  have  known  a  man,  and 
only  one  in  all  my  life,  who  laughed  at  death.  Oh,  if 
he  were  here.  Cineas !  Cineas !  Where  are  you  now  ? 
Why  did  you  forsake  your  friend  ?  You  at  least  have  no 
complaint  against  me.     O  Cineas,  if  you  were  but  here  how 


The  End  of  N'ero. 


359 


•ew  two 
p  brand- 
of  each, 
stood  for 
^•ho  were 
that  mo- 

both  dag- 
ttendants, 


well  you  could  show  me  the  path  to  death  !  Alas  !  what  an 
artist  dies  in  me !  " 

While  he  was  speaking,  a  sound  arrested  his  attention.  It 
was  well  known.  It  was  the  sound  of  a  troop  of  horse. 
They  were  in  pursuit. 

Nero  started.  He  shuddered  in  his  fear.  But  fear  could 
not  destroy  iiis  ruling  passion.  It  was  not  his  words,  but 
the  words  of  Homer  that  burst  from  him,  — 

"  The  sound  of  rapid  rushing  steeds  is  striking  on  my  ear." 


!S  to  your 

and  Nero 
silence. 

w  me  how 

Ltation,  but 

one  burst 

disgrace ; 
U  demands 

to  come, 
lo-rrers,  and 

ICO  ' 

lendants. 
you  were 
were  one 
man,  and 
I.      Oh,  if 
lyou  now? 
V  have  no 
here  how 


Seizing  one  of  his  daggers,  he  mustered  all  his  courage 
and  plunged  it  in  his  throat.  One  of  the  attendants  lent  his 
aid  to  a  second  blow.  It  was  a  mortal  wound.  Nero  fell 
back  dying.     They  lifted  him  on  the  couch. 

Not  long  after,  the  pursuers  who  had  by  some  means  or 
other  learned  his  hiding-place,  entered  the  house,  and  rushed 
into  the  room  headed  by  a  centurion.  The  centurion  tried 
to  stop  the  flow  of  blood. 

Nero  languidly  raised  his  eyes. 

"  Too  late,"  he  said,  and  then  added  in  a  scarce  audible 
voice,  "  Is  this  your  fidelity  ?  " 

The  next  instant  all  was  over. 

He  lay  dead,  but  in  death  still  terrible,  for  the  impress  of 
his  fierce  passions  yet  remained  to  awe  the  beholders.  The 
mastery  of  those  passions  by  which  he  had  been  governed 
for  years  had  left  its  impress  on  his  features.  His  face 
which  in  youth  had  not  been  unpleasing,  had  become  terrible 
and  fierce  in  its  expression,  and  even  in  death  the  ferocity 
remained  and  stru  ^k  terror  into  those  who  stood  near. 


lib; 
111! 


ili'ii'H: 


I'ii" 


XXXV. 


JUDEA. 

TITLE  the  nrmies  of  tlie  West  were  thus  rebelling 
against  the  emperor,  the  armies  of  the  East  were 
putting  clown  a  rebellion. 

Vespasian  left  Nero  in  Greece,  and  wielded  the 
strength  of  Rome  in  Judea.  He  encountered  no 
common  foe.  The  Jews  were  a  warlike  people, 
brave  and  resolute,  and  they  were  defending  their 
own  country.  That  country  was  formed  by  nature  for  defence. 
Whatever  plains  it  had  were  surrounded  by  mountains  which, 
acted  as  a  bulwark  against  the  invader,  where  brave  men 
although  undisciplined,  could  make  a  heroic  defence,  and  often 
keep  an  army  at  bay.  Among  the  mountains  there  were 
passes  which  no  invader  could  penetrate  without  a  most 
severe  struggle,  and  stout-hearted  men  were  there  who  were 
ready  to  make  every  pass  another  Thermopyla3. 

These  men  had  something  more  than  the  common  bravery 
of  a  valorous  race.  They  were  inspired  by  a  great  id(,'a. 
Every  man  believed  that  God  was  on  his  side ;  he  called  to 
mind  the  glories  of  the  past  when  that  God  had  interposed 
to  save  them,  and  had  enabled  them  to  overcome  enemies  as 
terrible  as  the  Romans.  The  sacred  Psalms,  which  formed 
part  of  their  religious  service,  commemorated  the  national 
triumphs  won  in  the  past,  and  no  man  who  sang  th(;m  could 
doubt  that  they  would  be  repeated  in  the  future.  Even 
defeat,  though  it  continued  in  long  succession,  could  not 
shake  their  resolution,  or  weaken  their  confidence  in  God. 
They  still  looked  forward  to  the  time  when  he  would  inter- 
(360) 


yiidca. 


361 


pose,  and  when  his  help  would  be  all  the  more  conspicuous 
from  the  fact  that  it  had  been  long  delayed.  So  each  defeat 
found  them  as  determined  as  ever ;  and  if  they  retreated 
from  one  place,  it  was  only  to  renew  the  conflict  in  another. 

This  fierce  fanaticism  of  the  Jews  inspired  all  alike,  men, 
women,  and  children.  They  had  been  born  and  nurtured  in 
a  nation  where  one  idea  was  universal,  and  that  was  the 
settled  conviction  that  they  were  the  chosen,  and  favored 
people  of  the  Most  High.  Surrender  was  never  thought  of. 
In  all  their  fights  the  only  alternative  of  victory  was  death. 
There  was  no  middle  ground.  This  resolution  was  strength- 
ened, if  it  could  be  strengthened,  by  the  wretched  fate  of 
those  prisoners  who  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Romans. 
They  were  made  slaves  of  the  worst  kind,  and  sent  to  hibor 
at  the  canal  at  Corinth.  P]very  new  incident  of  the  war, 
whether  it  was  a  success  or  a  reverse,  only  strengthened  the 
etubborn  temper  of  the  Jews,  and  made  them  fight  with  a 
more  reckless  desperation,  and  more  deathless  ardor. 

An  ordinary  general  might  have  failed  before  such  ene- 
mies as  these ;  so  fierce,  so  reckless,  so  lavish  of  life,  so 
patient,  and  so  vigilant ;  an  enemy  who  waited  not  to  be 
attacked,  but  flung  themselves  upon  their  foes  with  an  im- 
ptituous  charge,  that  sometimes  bore  down  everything  ;  who 
were  not  content  with  fighting  by  dayligiit,  but  attacked  with 
cijual  energy  by  night ;  who  fell  back  only  to  make  a  fresh 
assault,  and  even  in  death  hurled  defiance  at  the  conqueror. 

But  Vespasian  was  a  general  of  no  common  kind.  His 
men  had  been  brought  into  the  best  possible  discipline,  and 
he  knew  how  to  make  use  of  them  to  the  best  advantage. 
To  the  fanaticism  of  the  Jews  he  opposed  the  diseiplined 
valor  of  the  Roman  legions,  and  his  own  genius.  Gradually 
tlie  latter  prevailed,  and  slowly  but  surely  the  Roman  eagles 
were  borne  forward  over  the  land,  and  the  Jews  fell  back 
sullenly,  still  fighting,  and  still  looking  for  tlie  long-expected 
deliverer. 

This  was  the  conflict  into  which  Labeo  and  Cineas  had 
31 


»■ 


ill. 


:V'2 


yudca. 


thruwn  flic'inst'lvcs,  and  this  WJis  the  genenil  under  vvliom 
they  fought.  They  thouglit  notliiitg  of  tlie  justness  of  their 
cause,  because  tliey  took  it  for  granted  that  it  was  just,  since 
it  was  a  war  against  rebels.  Tlie  name  of  Koine  was  enough 
to  them.  But  it  wa?  not  a  cause  which  tliey  sought ;  their 
object  was  war,  in  the  fury  and  the  ardor  of  wliich  they  liojied 
to  find  respite  from  the  grief  that  coiisumcd  tiiem.  It  is 
action,  vigorous  action  that  can  keep  the  mind  from  preying 
on  itseh';  and  it  was  action  that  they  desired,  little  caring 
what  that  action  might  be. 

From  the  lirst  moment  of  their  arrival  in  Judea  they  had 
found  what  they  desired,  —  the  wild  excitement  of  active 
war  against  a  race  of  v'^ilant,  and  courageous  enemies. 
They  at  once  entered  upon  this  new  life  with  an  ardor,  an 
eagerness,  and  a  recklessness  which  made  them  both  conspic- 
uous. Their  faltering  friend  .'p,  tlK.'ir  close  association, 
and  their  unior.  oth  in  the  fight  and  out  of  it,  made  thera 
famous  both  among  their  own  men  and  the  enemy.  They 
undertook  the  most  desperate  enterprises,  and  one  was  as  reck- 
less of  his  life  as  the  other.  Wherever  one  went,  the  other 
went  also,  and  this  union  in  friendshi()  and  in  valor  soon 
made  them  so  marked,  that  the  Roman  armies  regarded 
these  two  as  liu'ir  especial  champions  and  the  camp  rang 
with  their  fame.  Cineas  was  rapidly  advanced,  and  might 
have  had  command  of  a  legion  if  he  had  wished  it,  but  La- 
beo  had  already  been  promoted  to  such  a  command,  and 
Cineas  had  no  higher  desire  tliaii  to  be  as  near  as  possible 
to  his  friend.  Promotion  was  nothing  to  him.  He  was 
only  glad  that  his  advance  had  been  sufficiently  rapid  to 
enable  him  to  continue  with  Labeo,  and  live  in  the  same 
tent,  and  be  near  him  in  the  conflict.  Promotion  made  no 
difference  in  their  conduct  in  battle.  Labeo  showed  more 
recklessness  than  was  considered  wise  in  the  commander  of 
a  legion,  and  led  his  men  to  the  n^ost  perilous  undertakings, 
and  Cineas,  who  had  less  responsibilities,  risked  his  person 
more  freely  still. 


Judca. 


363 


The  tumult  of  battle,  the  necessity  of  continuous  vigilance, 
the  fatigue  of  constant  marches,  the  excitement  of  victory, 
all  served  to  give  occupation  to  their  thoughts,  and  draw 
them  away  from  those  memories  which  were  so  agonizing. 
Labeo  thought  no  more  of  suicide.  In  the  care  which  ho 
had  to  bestow  upon  his  command,  he  found  that  this  life  had 
yet  occupation  for  his  thoughts  and  demands  upon  his  re- 
gard. Patriotism  awaked  and  put  forward  its  claims.  Mil- 
itary ardor  entered  into  rivalry  with  sorrowful  regret,  and 
being  more  active  and  more  passionate  proved  superior.  The 
great  responsibility  which  now  rested  upon  him  brought  its 
own  cares  and  its  own  anxieties  ;  his  mind  was  forced  to  oc- 
cupy itself  in  plans  of  attack  or  of  defence ;  he  had  to  take 
part  in  council  with  the  other  generals,  and  recall  all  his  expe- 
rience in  the  past  so  as  to  make  it  useful  in  the  present.  Such 
things  as  these  took  up  a  large  share  of  his  thoughts,  but 
little  time  was  left  for  other  things.  When  he  was  able  to 
think,  these  subjects  forced  themselves  before  him,  and  de- 
numded  consideration,  and  when  he  was  unable  to  give  them 
his  thoughts,  their  weariiigss  and  fatigue  overpowered  him, 
and  ho  often  turned  from  his  professional  cares  to  sleep. 

As  it  was  with  Labeo,  so  it  was  with  Cineas.  New  occu- 
pation of  mind  brought  new  cares  and  new  thoughts,  not  per- 
haps so  weighty  as  those  of  his  friend,  but  still  sufficiently  im- 
portant to  employ  the  greater  part  of  his  attention.  In  his 
inferior  position  also,  he  had  less  responsibility,  and  greater 
opportunity  for  displaying  individual  valor.  He  headed 
tierce  charges,  led  off  desperate  expeditions,  and  in  every 
enterprise  which  demanded  peculiar  daring,  and  utter  care- 
lessness of  life,  he  stood  forward  most  prominently  as  the 
leader.  Thus  each  in  a  different  way,  but  in  the  same  em- 
ployment, had  found  that  which  they  most  desired, — a  res- 
pite from  sorrow. 

The  war  went  on,  and  still,  in  spite  of  the  most  heroic  re- 
sistance, the  Jews  were  driven  back  before  the  armies  of 
Rome.     The  strategic  skill  of  Vespasian  over  matched  their 


364 


yudea. 


headlong  valor.  Pass  after  pass  was  penotrated,  citadel  after 
citadcd  was  seized.  With  Vespasian,  a  campaign  meant  in- 
cessant action.  But  little  time  for  rest  was  allowed  either 
to  his  own  soldiers  or  to  those  of  the  enemy. 

Yet,  even  in  such  a  war  as  this,  so  crowded  with  events,  it 
was  not  possible  but  that  there  should  be  some  periods  of 
rest.  Short  as  these  were,  they  yet  occurred,  and  the  soldiers 
formed  their  camps,  and  rested  for  a  while  from  their  labors. 
These  were  the  times  that  were  most  dreaded  by  Cineas  and 
Labeo. 

For  then,  when  all  was  secure,  and  the  army  rested  in  the 
well-fortified  camp,  and  action  for  a  while  was  suspended,  the 
activity  of  mind  which  the  business  of  war  created  was  suc- 
ceeded by  a  reaction,  and  from  all  their  excitement  they  had 
to  fall  back  upon  idleness,  and  all  the  thoughts  that  inaction 
could  foster. 

For  with  them  thought  at  such  times  meant  memory,  and 
memory  meant  misery.  All  that  was  sweet  in  past  life  now 
became  turned  to  bitterness,  from  the  fact  that  all  was  lost, 
and  every  pleasing  recollection  gave  only  a  sting  to  the  heart, 
which  still  yearned  over  the  past  and  longed  after  it  in  its 
desolation.  All  that  past  was  overshadowed  by  that  great 
cloud  of  grief  in  which  it  had  all  terminated,  and  thought, 
which  reverted  to  early  life,  went  on  through  that  life  till  it 
came  to  the  gloom  of  that  death-chamber  in  Britain. 

Their  only  chance  of  peace  or  calm  lay  in  incessant  ac- 
tion, and  when  that  ceased,  then  all  within  grew  dark  and 
gloomy.  Before  Cineas  there  came  the  form  of  that  lost  one 
to  whom  all  his  soul  had  been  so  closely  bound,  and  all  the 
joys  of  that  early  life,  which  once  had  been  so  sweet,  now 
were  turned  into  sorrows  unspeakable  by  the  thought  that 
all  had  ended  in  death.  Before  Labeo  there  arose  the  form 
of  his  idolized  boy,  with  his  last  words  of  love  and  longing, 
words  which  lingered  yet,  and  sounded  in  his  ears  always,  as 
though  they  would  enforce  attention  and  rouse  him  to  obey 
them. 


'  m    iM   vi^-i^^w*" 


T^ 


ytidea. 


365 


At  such  times  the  two  friends  instinctively  sought  each 
other's  society,  feeling  in  the  silent  sympathy  of  one  another's 
hearts  a  peace  and  a  comfort  that  nothing  else  could  give. 
They  did  not  speak  many  words  with  one  another  ;  they  sat 
in  silence  ;  but  sometimes,  in  low,  mournful  tones,  they  would 
talk  of  their  old  days  at  Athens,  and  while  speaking  of  the 
times  when  they  were  boys  together,  they  sometimes  felt  al- 
most as  if  they  were  boys  again.  Yet  in  that  boyhood  at 
Athens  there  was  one  who  was  always  present,  enlightening 
the  scene,  whose  merry,  girlish  laugh  rang  down  through  flie 
years,  and  whose  fair,  delicate  form  rose  before  them  among 
the  images  of  that  past  which  they  thus  I'ecalled.  Her 
name  was  never  mentioned  by  either,  but  each  felt  that  she 
stood  prominent  in  the  thoughts  of  the  other,  and,  though 
they  did  not  trust  themselves  to  name  her,  they  yet  carried 
her  in  their  hearts  as  the  centre  around  which  all  memories 
gathered. 

Of  Rome  or  of  Britain  they  never  spoke.  That  was  dif- 
ferent. For  those  places  were  connected  with  a  time  when 
Helena  was  with  Labeo  all  his  own,  and  wiien  his  home 
was  filled  with  sunshine  by  the  bright  beauty  of  that  boy 
whom  he  so  adored.  Nothing  which  was  in  any  way,  how- 
ever remote,  connected  with  Marcus,  was  ever  alluded  to  by 
Labeo.  That  was  too  sacred  for  even  a  distant  allusion  ;  the 
grief  was  all  his  own,  and  Cineas  could  not  understand  the 
fathomless  depths  of  a  father's  love  and  longing. 

So  pass(!d  the  hours  of  rest,  irksome  and  painful  to  both, 
and  the  effort  was  made  to  beguile  their  thoughts  by  plans 
of  war,  but  the  effort  was  often  useless,  and  the  only  remedy 
for  both  lay  in  renewed  action. 

The  action,  however,  was  never  long  delayed.  The  short 
jxriods  of  rest  were  soon  over,  the  camp  was  broken  up  and 
the  march  began  once  more,  and  the  fight,  and  the  struggle, 
with  its  dangers  and  vicissitudes,  gave  its  own  occupation  to 
the  mind. 

Into  that  struggle  they  rushed  with  renewed  ardor,  flying 
31* 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


?< 
^ 


/. 


% 


f/^ 


(/,. 
^ 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


2.2 


1^  1^ 


12.0 


U    ill  1.6 


V] 


<^ 


/i 


A 


■<r2 


4 


'/ 


/A 


^^..  ^ 


366 


Judea. 


from  thoughts  so  sad,  flying  from  themselves,  and  seeking  to 
renew  that  remedy  which  they  had  found  before. 

Thus  the  campaign  went  on,  and  month  after  month 
passed,  and  the  Jews  fell  back  faither  and  farther,  evermore 
facing  the  invader,  and  never  dreaming  of  giving  up.  For 
now  the  whole  nation  had  roused  itself  as  it  had  "never  done 
before,  and  all  the  patience,  and  all  the  expectation,  and  all 
the  longing  of  all  its  past  life  now  sought  satisfaction.  Faith 
looked  for  the  great  Deliverer,  and  still,  through  defeat  and 
ruin,  awaited  his  appearance. 


XXXVI. 


yOTAPATA. 


^HE  Roman  army  had  been  delayed  for  weeks  be- 
fore Jotapata.  The  city  was  one  of  the  strongest 
in  the  country,  and  here  all  the  scattered  bands  of 
Jewish  warriors,  who  had  fallen  back  before  the  in- 
vader, had  taken  refuge.  The  siege  was  carried  on 
by  the  Romans  with  the  utmost  skill  and  vigor,  but 
the  Jews  fought  with  such  energy,  —  they  were  so 
vigilant  in  defence,  and  so  active  in  their  sorties,  —  that  but 
little  progress  was  made.  The  gain  of  one  day  was  lost  on 
the  ne>  t. 

The  Roman  army  thus  lay  before  the  city,  still  preparing 
those  engines  common  to  tiie  war  in  those  days,  employing  all 
the  means  of  attack  then  known,  and  carrying  on  their  oper- 
ations with  that  patient  perseverance  which  always  distin- 
guished them. 

Labeo,  as  usual,  had  been  most  active  in  urging  his*  men 
to  the  attack.  His  battering-rams  were  brought  up  most 
frequently,  and  hurled  most  furiously  against  the  massive 
walls ;  his  men  rushed  most  desperately  to  the  assault, 
whether  by  scaling-ladders  or  by  movable  towers;  and  the 
bulistas  and  catapults  wb^^h  he  employed  ,;>re  worked  most 
incessantly.  On  the  otli  r  hand,  if  he  a  oyed  the  Jews 
most,  he  also  suffered  most  from  them ;  he  was  exposed  to 
the  most  frequent  attacks,  and  was  forced  to  make  use  of  the 
most  watchful  vigilance. 

On  one  day  they  had  been  fighting  desperately.  The 
Jews  had  been  fired  with  new  ardor  by  the  advent  of  a  skilful 

(367) 


m 


368 


yotapata. 


leader,  who  was  conspicuous  on  the  walls,  and  stimulated  his 
followers  to  acts  of  extraordinary  daring.  Bui-ning  material 
was  showered  down  upon  the  soldiers  who  worked  the  rams. 
Boilin'T  oil  was  poured  upon  those  who  sought  to  scale  the 
walls.  One  movable  wooden  tower,  which  had  been  just 
finished  after  extraordinary  labor,  was  reduced  to  ashes,  and 
the  Romans  were  forced  to  retire,  wearied  and  exhausted,  to 
their  camp. 

There  they  retired  to  rest.  Labeo,  worn  out  by  the  day's 
labor,  flung  himself  upon  his  couch.  The  wearied  guards 
kept  a  languid  watch. 

Suddenly  a  shout  was  heard,  a  wild  cry  of  alarm,  followed 
on  the  instant  by  shouts  of  fury  and  of  vengeance.  The 
wild  alarm  spread  through  the  camp.  The  soldiers  started 
to  their  feet.  Labeo  was  up  first,  and  hastily  arming  him- 
self, rushed  to  the  scene  of  tumult. 

The  camp  was  filled  with  confusion.  From  every  side 
the  soldiers  came  flocking,  some  half-armed,  others  unarmed, 
an  agitated  crow^l.  The  guards  were  falling  back,  and  al- 
ready within  the  ramparts  there  was  a  host  of  Jews,  who,  in 
their  fierce  onset,  swept  all  before  them.  At  their  head  was 
the  leiider  whose  valor  had  been  so  conspicuous  on  the  walls 
that  day*  He  it  was  who  had  planned  this  night  attack,  and 
he  was  leading  on  his  men  to  victory. 

Labeo  saw  it  all  at  once.  In  an  instant  he  had  gained  his 
presence  of  mind.  He  issued  his  commands,  formed  Ids 
men,  and  presented  a  well-ordered  front  to  the  triumphant 
enemy.  The  Jews  rushed  forward.  The  Romans  withstood 
the  shock.  In  that  hour  of  alarm  and  terror,  they  stood 
erect  and  bold,  half-armed,  yet  without  fear,  inspired  by 
the  cool  orders  of  Labeo,  and  by  their  own  firm  discipline. 
Again  and  again  the  Jews  flung  themselves  upon  their  ene- 
mies, but  the  Romans  stood  their  ground.  Then  began  a 
close  hand-to-hand  fight,  in  which  each  assailant  singled  Oat 
his  man  and  attacked  him  personally. 

In  that  f  ght  the  leader  of  the  Jews  was  particularly  dis- 


yotapata. 


369 


tinguished.  It  was  his  voice  that  animated  his  followers,  and 
led  them  on  with  fresh  fury,  after  every  repulse,  to  renew 
their  attack.  He  was  dressed  in  magnificent  armor,  which 
had  once  belonged  to  some  Roman  officer.  He  did  not  con- 
tent himself  with  giving  orders,  but  led  the  way  himself, 
using  his  own  weapon  with  fatal  effect,  wherever  the  oppor- 
tunity presented  itself. 

Labeo  had  but  half  the  men  of  the  camp.  At  the  first 
alarm  he  had  formed  his  line  out  of  those  who  first  presented 
themselves.  The  rest  were  scattered,  either  sleeping  yet  or 
wandering  in  disorder.  The  crisis  roused  him  to  the  high- 
est pitch  of  daring.  He  stood  at  the  head  of  his  men,  and 
freely  exposed  his  life.  The  example  of  their  general  affected 
all  the  soldiers.  They  stood  their  ground  firmly,  and  re- 
mained unbroken  by  the  most  furious  charge  of  their  enemy. 

At  last  the  Jewish  leader  made  a  final  charge,  witii  greater 
desperation,  against  the  place  where  Labeo  stood.  From 
that  tremendous  onset,  where  every  Jew  was  eager  to  de- 
vote himself  to  death  for  the  good  of  his  people,  even  the 
firm  Romans  recoiled.  In  despair,  Labeo  seized  a  standard 
and  called  upon  his  men  to  follow,  and  plunged  into  the  ranks 
of  the  inemy.  The  Romans  rushed  forward  after  their 
standari  and  their  general.  The  struggle  that  ensued  was 
fearful.  A  wild  rush  from  both  sides  was  made  at  the 
standard;  the  one  with  the  hope  of  capturing  it,  the  other 
with  the  determination  to  save  it.  In  a  few  moments  the 
Jews  were  all  around  the  bold  leader  who  had  thus  thrown 
himself  among  them,  and  against  them  pressed  the  solid 
ranks  of  the  legions  of  Rome.  Labeo  fought  them,  calling 
on  his  men,  and  the  men  tried  to  hew  their  way  toward  him 
through  the  enemy. 

At  last  Labeo  fell.  The  standard  was  torn  from  his  grasp. 
Covered  with  wounds,  he  lay  on  the  groimd,  his  face  up- 
turned, his  nerveless  hand  feebly  waving  his  sword,  and 
death  from  a  dozen  spears  impeniding  over  him. 

Suddenly  a  cry  rang  through  the  din  of  the  combat. 


/-\ 


lii....... 


370 


yotafata. 


"Awayl  Spare  him.  Attack  the  Romans.  He  is 
mine." 

It  was  the  leader  of  the  Jews.  His  followers  obeyed,  and 
rusiied  upon  the  Romans. 

The  Jewish  leader  flung  himself  upon  his  knees,  and  tried 
to  raise  up  Labeo. 

"  O  Labeo ! "  he  cried,  in  a  voice  which  was  well  remem- 
bered by  the  other.     "  I  have  saved  you.     Thank  God ! " 

"  Isaac ! "  cried  Labeo,  in  amazement. 

"  It  is  I,"  said  the  other.  "  Alas !  that  I  should  lift  ray 
hand  against  one  whom  I  love.  I  recognized  you  by  your 
voic .  <n  the  gloom.     Thank  God,  I  have  saved  you." 

"  I  want  no  safety,  —  death  is  what  I  want.  Leave  me 
and  let  them  kill  me." 

"  Never.  I  will  save  you.  I  will  carry  you  to  where  you 
will  be  out  of  the  tumult." 

And  Isaac  stooped  to  lift  the  wounded  man  in  his  arms. 

But  at  that  moment  a  shout  was  heard,  and  a  great  throng 
of  armed  legionaries  rushed  forward  from  the  side  taking  the 
assailants  in  flank.  At  their  head  was  Cineas,  who  had  been 
at  the  other  end  of  the  camp,  and  had  not  heard  the  first  tu- 
mult. But  at  the  first  noise  that  reached  him  he  had  started 
up,  and  gathering  all  the  men  of  that  quarter,  he  had  led  them 
to  the  scene  of  action.  His  quick  mind  had  at  once  compre- 
hended the  whole  state  of  atfairs,  and  he  had  so  arranged  his 
attack  that  he  took  the  Jews  in  flank,  and  drove  them  back 
in  wild  confusion.  The  other  Romans  rushed  forward  with 
fresh  ardor,  and  the  Jews,  caught  thus  between  two  bands 
of  assailants,  fell  back  in  dismay. 

All  this  was  but  the  work  of  a  few  moments. 

Isaac  placed  Labeo  on  the  ground  and  sprang  forward. 

"  Onward,"  he  cried.  "  In  the  name  of  the  God  of  Abra- 
ham, who  fights  for  us,  now  is  the  time.  "  Onward ! " 

But  the  Romans  overmatched  them  on  all  sides,  and  the 
most  frantic  etfort^  of  the  Jews  were  unavailing.  The  forme  \ 
borne  along  by  the  impetus  of  their  first  onset,  still  swept  all 


yotapata. 


371 


before  them ;  and  the  latter,  though  still  figliting,  were  yet 
unable  to  make  a  stand  against  the  full  tide  of  that  onset. 
Cineas  was  at  the  head  of  his  men,  in  th  midst  of  the  strife 
calling  upon  them  to  avi  'ige  this  disgrace  id  retrieve  their 
disaster.  Suddenly  he  saw  the  captured  standard  held  aloft 
amid  a  crowd  of  Jews.  To  this  he  sought  to  fight  his  way. 
He  pointed  this  out  to  his  men,  and  implored  them  by  their 
military  oath,  by  the  honor  of  the  Roman  name,  and  by  their 
manhood,  to  regain  that  lost  standard. 

The  Romans  made  more  furious  exertions,  and  now,  as 
they  rushed  in  on  all  sides  upon  the  Jews,  they  made  greater 
headway. 

In  the  midst  of  the  throng  of  fighting  men  stood  Isaac, 
near  the  standard,  calling  to  his  men.  Toward  him  Cineas 
led  a  chosen  band  of  his  followers,  men  whom  he  had  b<!cn 
accustomed  to  lead  in  desperate  enterprises.  A  short,  herce 
struggle  opened  the  way  to  the  object  of  their  search ;  a 
score  of  hands  grasped  the  lost  standard ;  the  Jews  who 
sought  to  retain  it  were  cut  to  pieces. 

Then  Cineas  rushed.forward,  seeking  out  the  leader  of  the 
Jews  to  attack  him  in  person. 

Isaac  stood  his  ground  with  a  handful  of  Jews  around  him. 
The  rest  were  all  falling  back  in  confusion.  His  voice  rang 
out  loud  and  stern  in  the  conflict,  mingling  entreaties  and 
reproaches.  But  his  men  could  not  rally,  and  soon  the  Ro- 
mans were  all  around. 

"  Cineas !  "  cried  a  feeble  voice  from  the  midst  of  the  con- 
fused mass  of  men. 

Cineas  heard  and  recognized  the  voice  of  Labeo.  He 
lay  on  the  ground  trampled  by  struggling  soldiers  as  they 
rushed  to  and  fro.  In  an  instant  Cineas  )iad  flung  his  arms 
around  his  friend  and  di'ugged  him  away  from  danger. 

"  Alas,  Labeo  !  is  it  thus  I  find  you  ?  "  cried  Cineas,  in  a 
mournful  voice. 

"Leave  me,"  said  Labeo,  faintly.  "Drive  back  the  ac- 
cursed Jews.     But  don't  harm  Isaac." 


•MiitattilMiM 


372 


yotapata. 


\ 


"  Isaac  ! "  exclaimed  Cineas,  in  bewilderment. 

"  He  is  their  leader.  He  saved  my  life.  Save  his. 
Leave  me.     Haste,  or  it  will  be  too  late  to    ave  him." 

Though  startled,  Cineas  at  once  comprehended  the  situa- 
tion. He  hurried  to  the  place  where  Isaac  still  fouglit. 
He  ordered  his  soldiers  to  take  the  Jewish  leader  alive. 

Isaac,  faint  and  weary  from  fatigue  and  wounds,  fought 
but  feebly,  but  still  he  stood  his  ground,  for  he  had  deter- 
mined to  die  there  in  that  camp.  But  the  Romans  rushed 
upon  him.  His  sword  was  dashed  from  his  hand.  In  an 
instant  he  was  knocked  down  violently,  and  held  firmly  in 
the  grasp  of  his  enemies. 

Meanwhile,  the  Romans  kept  up  their  pursuit  of  the  Jews, 
and  now  had  it  all  their  own  way.  The  assailants  were 
turned  into  a  disorderly  band  of  panic-stricken  fugitives,  who, 
crowded  together  in  the  camp,  could  scarcely  find  a  retreat. 
Many  were  able  to  leap  over  the  walls,  but  most  of  them  per- 
ished within  the  fatal  enclosure.     Few  returned  to  the  city. 

At  last  all  was  over,  the  last  fugitive  had  departed,  the 
last  assailant  had  been  slain.  The  Romans  devoted  them- 
selves to  the  task  of  securing  the  wounded  prisoners,  and 
conveying  them  away,  and  burying  the  dead.  The  noise  of 
the  soldiers  at  their  work,  filled  the  camp. 

Labeo  was  carried  to  bis  tent,  and  his  armor  was  taken  off. 
Cineas,  knowing  Isaac's  skill,  brought  him  to  examine  the 
wounded  man.  Isaac's  bearing  was  dignified  and  serene  as 
of  old,  with  no  trace  of  dejection. 

Labeo  was  severely  wounded  in  several  places,  but  his 
chief  danger  arose  from  the  terrible  bruises  which  he  had 
received.  Isaac  examined  him  tenderly  and  carefully,  and 
told  Cineas  that  his  condition  was  very  dangerous,  but,  that 
with  constant  care  and  perfect  rest  he  might  yet  recover. 
In  Labeo's  tent  he  found  such  simples  as  were  then  used  in 
active  war  for  wounds  and  sickness,  and,  after  dressing  the 
wounds,  retired  to  an  adjoining  tent  in  which  Cineas  had 
placed  him. 


yotapata. 


373 


"You,  too,  are  wounded,"  said  he  to  Isaac.  "You  must 
attend  to  yourself.  You  are  perfectly  safe,  for  you  are  un- 
der Liibeo's  protection,  and  mine  also.  Do  not  feel  despond- 
ent.    You  will  be  free  again  before  very  long;" 

"  Before  very  long ! "  exclaimed  Isaac  in  deep  emotion. 
His  eyes  glistened ;  tears  fell  from  them.  He  grasped  the 
hand  of  Cineas,  and.  murmuring  some  scarce  audible  words, 

he  turned  away. 

32 


tiMlaiiriitjii  -. 


XXXVII. 


THE  MINISTRY  OF  SORROW. 

ABEO'S  wounds  were  so  severe  that  the  prospect  of 
his  recovery  was  uncertain.  The  first  care  of  Cin- 
cas  was  to  remove  his  friend  away  from  the  scene 
feg^^J  of  conflict,  and,  as  he  wished  to  attend  to  liim,  he 
(^^-'  also  left  the  army  for  a  time,  and  took  Isaac  with 
him.  They  went  to  a  little  village  a  short  distance 
from  Ptolemais,  which  was  situated  upon  the  summit 
of  a  lofty  hill.  The  wide  sea  spread  out  before  them,  and 
toward  the  soutli-west  lay  the  sublime  form  of  Mount  Car- 
mel.  Here  in  this  pure  mountain  air,  with  the  fresh  sea- 
breezes  blowing  continually,  Labeo  found  a  place  where  he 
could  be  most  speedily  restored.  Only  a  few  women  and 
children  remained  in  the  village.  Nearly  all  the  men,  and 
even  the  boys,  had  gone  away  to  fight.  Amid  these  care- 
worn faces,  Cineas  saw  the  sad  ti'aces  of  the  conflict.  The 
husbands,  brothers,  and  fathers  of  these  poor  villagers,  had  left 
them,  and  though  they  devoutly  believed  that  the  God  of  the 
Jews  would  give  ultimate  victory  to  his  chosen  people,  yet 
they  still  had  fear  for  the  safety  of  their  own  loved  ones. 

Here  Isaac's  unremitting  care  was  followed  by  the  recov- 
ery of  Labeo.  Isaac  seemed  to  have  relapsed  into  his  former 
self,  —  the  calm,  self-restrained  man.  No  trace  remained 
of  tL" ':  bold  leader  who  had  headed  his  fierce  followers  on 
that  memorable  night  attack.  Cineas,  as  he  sometimes  looked 
at  him,  found  h'liself  wondering  whether  it  could  be,  indeed, 
the  same  man ;  but  he  had  so  many  experiences  of  the  deep 

fire  and  passion  that  lay  beneath  all  this  calm  exterior,  that 

(374) 


The  Ministry  of  Sorrow. 


375 


ijiti: 


he  saw  how  this  man  could  appear  as  he  had  in  two  such 
totally  differei.t  characters. 

At  last  Labeo  recovered  so  far  that  he  was  able  to  move 
about,  and  enjoy  the  open  air.  His  recovery  was  now  only 
a  matter  of  time. 

One  evening,  when  Labeo  had  retired  to  rest,  Cineas  sat 
with  Isaac  outside  looking  toward  the  sea,  to  whore  Mount 
Carmel  reared  its  colossal  form,  now  looming  grandly  in  the 
dim  twilight.  Isaac  was  buried  in  his  own  thoughts,  and 
said  but  little. 

"  Isaac,"  said  Cineas,  suddenly.  "  Do  you  want  to  be 
free?" 

Isaac  started.  "  Free ! "  he  cried,  and  then  said  nothing 
more. 

"  It  is  possible." 

"  Possible  !  Are  you  in  earnest  ?  Free  ?  O  Cineas,  I 
would  willingly  give  up  all  the  life  that  may  be  allotted  to  me 
if  I  could  be  free  but  for  one  month,  —  yes,  only  one  month." 

"  One  month  ?  you  may  be  free  as  long  as  you  live.  For 
you  have  saved  Labeo's  life,  and  he  owes  you  a  debt,  and  so 
do  I  for  his  sake.     Yes,  Isaac,  you  deserve  your  freedom." 

Isaac  sat  looking  with  fixed  eyes  at  Cineas,  his  hands 
clenched,  and  his  breast  heaving  with  strong  emotion. 

"  But  if  you  were  free  what  would  you  do  ?  Would  you  be 
willing  to  stay  here  with  us  ?  " 

"  O  Cineas,"  said  Isaac.  "  I  will  stay  here  as  long  as  you 
retain  me ;  but  if  you  once  say  that  I  am  free,  I  must  go." 

"  Would  you  not  stay  as  a  free  man  ?  " 

"  Not  an  hour." 

"  Not  for  Labeo's  sake  ?  " 

"  There  is  another  that  I  love  more  than  Labeo." 

"  What !  have  you  relatives  ?  " 

"Israel!"  exclaimed  Isaac,  with  deep  emotion;  "my 
country,  my  people,  —  that  is  a  love  that  is  the  strongest  in 
me,  — for  that  I  will  gladly  lay  down  my  life." 

"  Israel,"  said  Cineas  mournfully,  "  and  do  you  not  know 


376 


The  Ministry  of  Sorrow. 


that  your  countrymen  nro  falling  buck  everywhere,  from 
before  the  Rom  \\\  armies  ? " 

"  That  is  why  I  want  to  join  them." 

"  If  you  do,  your  life  will  not  last  a  month." 

"  My  life  is  nothing.  It  is  not  my  life  that  I  love,  but  my 
country." 

"  But  if  your  countrymen  arc  engaged  in  a  hopeless  task, 
why  should  you  care  to  join  them  ?  " 

"  The  task  is  not  hopeless." 

"  The  Romans  have  been  victorious  thus  far." 

"  Ay,  but  the  time  will  come." 

«  What  time  ?  " 

"  The  time  when  all  this  will  all  be  changed.  God  reigns, 
let  the  nations  tremble." 

"  Your  God  has  done  nothing  yet." 

"  Our  God  can  wait.  He  is  patient.  He  has  his  own 
time.  He  watches  the  world  with  his  infinite  wisdom,  and 
interferes  at  his  own  set  houi\" 

"  But  soon  there  will  be  nothing  to  save." 

"  No,  that  time  will  never  come." 

"  Not  when  Jerusalem  itself  shall  fall,  and  the  Temple  be 
in  the  hands  of  Roman  soldiers  ?  " 

"Jerusalem!"  exclaimed  Isaac,  rising  to  his  feet.  "The 
Holy  City.  That  shall  never  fall,  never!  The  Temple 
shall  never  be  defiled.  No,  then,  if  the  Roman  armies  do 
indeed  penetrate  so  far,  then  he  will  interpose,  and  he  will 
show  the  world  that  he  still  reigns.  Oh,  may  it  be  my  lot 
to  live  but  till  then  ;  then  most  gladly  will  I  die." 

"  You  are  inflexible  in  your  purpose,  Isaac,"  said  Cineas, 
mournfully  ;  "  and  obstinate  in  your  hope.  After  all,  I  can 
understand  your  deep  love  for  your  country.  You,  even  if 
you  had  no  hope  would  not  be  willing  to  survive  your  coun- 
try." 

"  No,"  said  Isaac,  with  lofty  emphasis,  "  if  I  had  no  hope, 
I  would  still  choose  rather  to  lay  down  my  life  on  the  holy 
hill  of  Zion,  in  the  Temple  of  the  Most  High,  than  live  to  see 


The  Ministry  of  Sorrow. 


377 


that  Toraplc  drfilod.  But  it  shall  not  be  defilpd.  T  have 
hope,  a  glorious  hope  ;  yes,  something  more  than  hope,  siiieo 
it  is  a  fixed  conviction,  a  faith  that  is  part  of  my  being, 
which  I  sliall  cling  to  in  s[)ite  of  every  misfortune,  till  death 
itself  shall  come.  My  faith  in  Ilim  cannot  be  shaken  by  any 
conceivable  thing.  I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth,  lUid 
that  at  last  he  shall  stand  upon  this  earth." 

Cineas  started,  for  he  had  heard  those  words  before. 

"And  do  you  think  this  One  of  whom  you  speak  will  at 
last  come  to  head  your  armies  ?" 

"  Every  day  only  increases  my  belief.  The  longer  he 
delays,  the  more  glorious  will  be  his  appearance.  And  I  n(»\v 
believe  that  it  is  best  and  wisest  for  him  thus  to  try  us.  He 
is  testing  our  faith.  He  knows  all  things,  and  acts  in  the 
best  way.  We  are  nothing  in  his  hands.  Praised  be  his 
holy  name ! " 

"  Isaac,"  said  Cineas,  after  a  short  pause,  "  you  are  free." 

"  Free ! " 

"  Absolutely  free.  I  bid  you  go  if  you  wish,  or  stay  if  you 
wish.     You  are  no  longer  a  prisoner.     Do  you  hear  ?  " 

"  I  hear,"  said  Isaac,  "  but  I  am  overwhelmed.  Say  that 
again,"  he  cried,  in  tones  of  entreaty.  "  Let  me  hear  it  once 
more.     Let  me  know  that  my  ears  do  not  deceive  me." 

Again  Cineas  repeated  those  words. 

Isaac  fell  upon  his  knees,  and  with  upturned  face  gave 
thanks  to  the  God  of  Israel.  Then,  turning  to  Cineas,  he 
tried  to  express  his  gratitude.  In  vain  ;  emotion  overpow- 
ered him.  He  could  not  speak.  He  flung  himself  upon 
Cineas  and  embraced  him. 

Then,  without  a  word,  he  walked  hurriedly  away.  Cineas 
saw  his  figure  retreating  in  the  gloom.  He  watched  him  as 
he  strode  quickly  up  the  mountain  that  rose  behind  the  vil- 
lage, and  at  last  his  retreating  figure  was  lost  to  sight. 

As  long  as  Labeo  was  in  a  condition  which  was  at  all 
critical,  Cineas  had  a  general  anxiety  in  his  mind  which 
created  full  occupation  for  his  thoughts.     But  now  when  the 

82  « 


78 


The  Ministry  cf  Sorrow. 


danger  had  passed  away,  the  old  feelings,  so  long  fought 
against,  returned  with  fresh  violence.  Convalescence  is  a 
state  which  is  irksome  to  the  mind.  Labeo  found  himself 
going  back  to  a  life  which  he  detested.  Each  day  only 
added  to  his  gloom,  for  there  came  before  him  more  freshly 
than  ever  the  form  of  that  great  grief  which  ihe  activity  of 
war  had  only  lulled,  but  never  altogether  quieted. 

The  departure  of  Isaac  threw  them  more  than  ever  upon 
themselves  and  their  own  thoughts.  There  was  nothing 
which  could  relieve  these  or  divert  them.  As  they  sat 
together  they  found  themselves  drifting  back  into  the  old 
melancholy,  and  the  old  despair. 

"Alasl"  said  Labeo,  once,  abruptly  breaking  a  long 
silence,  "  why  was  I  saved  ?    Why  did  I  not  perish  there  ?  " 

Cineas  sighed,  but  said  nothing. 

"  I  look  forward,"  continued  Labeo,  "  and  my  highest  hope 
is  death.  Thn  ambition  which  I  once  had  has  gone  long 
ago.  I  have  no  motive,  and  nothing  that  makes  life  sweet. 
When  I  was  in  the  field  I  had  my  feelings  as  a  soldier 
and  the  excitement  of  the  campaign.     Those  are  gone  now." 

"  T^on't  be  down-hearted,"  said  Cineas.  "  You  will  be 
back  to  your  legion  soon.     Every  day  makes  you  stronger." 

"  Yes ;  but  in  waiting  till  my  strength  comes  I  fret  my 
heart,  and  then  I  grow  weaker.  It  is  hard  for  the  body  to 
recover  when  the  soul  is  sick." 

So  they  used  to  speak.  Cineas  found  that  he  had  no  con- 
solation. 

Philosophy,  he  saw,  was  for  a  select  few,  and  what  was 
more,  for  those  only  when  in  health,  or  in  prosperity.  In 
sorrow  it  failed.  What  did  it  give  him  now,  or  what  had  he 
leaviK'd  from  it,  that  he  could  offer  to  Labeo  ?  Nothing.  All 
that  he  could  say  was  nothing  more  than  a  poor  legionary 
might  say  to  his  sick  companion,  — "  Don't  be  down-hearted. 
You  will  soon  be  well." 

To  him  and  to  his  friend  there  was  no  consolation  given 
by   Plato.      In    all  his   writings   he    found    nothing    which 


The  Ministry  of  Sorrow. 


379 


could  soothe  the  heart  in  its  anguish,  and  administer  comfort 
and  speak  peace  to  the  mourner.  There  on  every  page 
stood  Socrates,  sometimes  sublime,  but  most  frequently  ironi- 
cal, disputative,  bantering,  not  the  figure  for  presenlation  at 
the  couch  of  sickness  or  of  death.  His  soul  craved  words 
that  were  more  tender  and  sympathetic.  He  yearned  after 
something  which  he  could  take  to  his  heart. 

There  came  up  before  hiui,  like  an  old  memory,  the  form 
of  One  of  whom  he  had  once  read,  and  who,  he  had  thought, 
was  far  superior  to  Socrates.  One  who  was  always  tender, 
always  sympathetic  ;  who  looked  with  love  upon  all  man- 
kind, and  chose  out  for  his  associates,  not  the  proud,  the 
wealthy,  or  the  great,  but  the  poor,  the  lowly,  and  above  all 
the  suffering.  It  was  to  the  mourning  and  stricken-heart 
that  he  best  loved  to  draw  near,  and  speak  his  words  of  ten- 
der consolation.  There  came  up  before  him  ^iiat  face,  sad, 
woful,  but  expressing  in  every  lineameni.  pity  that  was  in- 
exhaustible, love  without  limit,  infinite  mercy  and  compas- 
sion. Was  not  this  the  teacher  for  him  now  in  his  sorrow  ? 
Socrates,  the  man  of  irony,  was  driven  out,  and  in  his  place 
there  stood  the  Man  of  Sorrows. 

There  came  to  his  mind  that  being  who  had  talked  of  this 
life  and  the  next  with  the  tone  of  one  who  was  in  both  the 
Lord  and  Master ;  who,  in  his  tender  pity  for  the  sorrow  of 
this  life,  never  ceased  to  point  to  another  life  whore  sorrow 
should  all  be  over,  and  all  be  joined  in  him.  Tliis  One  came 
to  the  mourner,  and  bade  him  not  crush  his  grief,  or  run 
away  from  it,  but  rather  look  up  and  gain  an  antidote,  and 
see  in  God  and  in  heaven  that  which  could  rob  all  evil  of 
its  sting,  and  take  from  grief  its  sharpest  pang. 

This  One  had  himself  suffered  and  sorrowed,  and  there- 
fore in  the  grief  of  others  knew  best  how  to  sympathize. 

And  Cineas  knew  well  from  the  memories  that  no"' 
crowded  upon  his  mind  how  true  that  comfort  was  which 
this  One  could  give.  He  had  seen  it.  He  had  marked  it  in 
the  gloom  of  the  catacombs,  where  those  who  lived  amid 


hi: 


38o 


The  MinisU-y  of  Sorrow. 


darkness,  with  tears,  and  in  fear,  yet  bore  np  against  all,  and 
sometimes  evinced  a  lofty  calm,  a  pure  and  elevated  resigna- 
tion, which  showed  that  they  had  mastered  their  own  hearts 
through  the  power  of  their  faith. 

He  had  seen  it  there  under  the  pressure  of  the  same  grief 
which  he  was  enduring ;  when  bereavement  came,  and  the 
friend  of  a  life  was  snatched  away,  and  the  survivor  remained 
alone  in  the  world.  But  he  had  seen  the  survivor  stand 
over  the  grave  of  his  love  with  a  holy  peace  upon  his  face, 
and  in  his  heart,  and  commit  his  treasure  to  the  tomb  and 
turn  away,  and  yet  not  be  overwhelmed. 

He  had  seen  mothers  nursing  the  wasted  foi'ms  of  little 
children  who  were  pining  and  dying  in  their  drear  place  of 
banishment ;  and  yet  these  motherr<  murmured  not,  nor  were 
their  hearts  broken.  Faith  made  them  look  away  to  that 
divine  consolation  which  they  had  cherished,  and  bereaved 
ones  would  thus  stand  before  the  grave,  and  join  in  the  song 
of  the  Christians,  —  a  song  which  expressed  love  stronger 
than  death,  faith  triumphant  over  sorrow,  and  hope  full  of 
immortality. 

More  strongly  than  all  others  he  recalled  the  words  of  Hel- 
ena, spoken  when  her  son  had  gone  from  her.  Then  the 
father  lay  stupelied  by  grief,  and  Cineas  was  speechless,  but 
Helena  stood  erect,  mourning,  but  calm,  and  spoke  words 
which  Cineas  had  treasured  in  his  heart :  — 

"  He  said  we  would  all  meet  again.  And  we  may  all 
have  that  meeting.  Where  he  has  gone,  there  we  all  may 
go  if  we  will. 

"  He  is  not  dead.  He  lives.  He  has  left  his  form  be- 
hind, as  we  might  leave  our  garments  ;  but  he  himself  now 
stands  among  the  redeemed. 

"  This  is  the  glory  of  the  religion  of  Christ,  that  little  chil- 
dren may  know  him,  and  feel  his  love  in  life  and  in  death. 
He  invited  them  to  him.  He  said  that  heaven  was  made 
up  of  such.  '  Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven.'  And  who 
is  fit  for  heaven,  if  Marcus  is  not  ? 


The  Ministry  of  Sorrow. 


381 


"  He  is  in  light  and  life  eternal ;  while  we  are  in  dark- 
ness and  death.  He  looks  down  upon  our  grief  from  heaven. 
We  may  all  meet  hira  if  we  will." 

Well  did  Cineas  remember  these  word=>,  simple  bi'.t  soul- 
felt,  expressing  that  which  sustained  her,  and  gave  her  jieaco. 
But  better  yet  did  he  remember  those  words  in  which  she 
expressed  her  own  faith,  by  which  she  clung  to  him  whom 
she  called  her  God  and  her  Redeemer :  — 

"  He  is  truth,"  said  she,  in  those  words  which  Cineas  had 
never  forgotten.  "  He  is  truth.  Seek  hira,  and  you  will  find 
peace. 

"  He  is  the  only  one  worth  seeking  after.  Find  him,  and  you 
gain  immortality.  He  gives  eternal  life  with  himself  in  heaven 

"  O  Cineas,  you  have  learned  all  that  philosophy  can  ever 
tell  you  ;  but  there  is  something  which  you  do  not  know,  and 
you  feel  the  n  ^ed  of  it.  You  crave  it.  I  have  found  it  all 
in  the  religion  of  Christ. 

"  You  know  all  about  God  except  one  thing,  and  that  one 
thing  you  can  never  find  out  except  from  Christ.  It  is  the  one 
thing  th.'it  he  teaches.  I  knew  all  else  before ;  I  only  learned 
from  him  this  '^'.e  thing,  —  it  is  that  God  loves  me.  For  I 
know  it,  —  I  ^  now  it ;  and  I  love  him  who  first  loved  me. 

"  He  takes  j.  vay  all  fear.  Can  I  fear  to  die  ?  He  before 
whom  I  must  i  npear  is  my  Saviour,  my  Kedeemer.  He 
loves  me  and  I  'ove  him.  I  shall  see  him,  and  shall  dwell 
in  his  presence  forever. 

"  Cineas,  philosophy  can  give  courage  in  the  face  of  death, 
to  a  philosopher,  and  make  him  die  calmly  ;  but  Christ  can 
take  away  all  fear  of  death  from  weak  women,  and  from  little 
children.     It  is  his  love  that  does  this. 

"  And  now  my  soul  clings  to  him.  He  supjiorts  me.  I 
love  him  and  have  no  fear.  O  that  you  had  this  love,  you 
would  then  know  that  all  you  seek  is  found  in  him  ! " 

All  these  words,  often  recalled,  gave  to  Cineas  a  deep 
longing  to  feel  their  meaning  as  Helena  had  felt  it. 

He  still  cherished  that  manuscript  which  she  had  lent  him 


382 


The  Ministry  of  Sorrow, 


as  some  precious  memorial  of  her.  He  had  often  read  it  in 
former  days.     Now  in  his  gloom  he  turned  to  it  once  more. 

He  read  it  aloud,  and  Labeo,  too,  heard  the  story  of  the 
Divine  One.  He  was  not  unaffected  by  the  sorrows  of  that 
my.sterious  being. 

Cineas  was  changed  from  his  former  self.  His  old  self- 
complacency  had  completely  gone.  That  conceit,  that  reli- 
ance on  hiniaclf,  on  his  shrewdness  and  penetration,  on  his 
learning  and  genius,  had  all  been  crushed  out  of  him.  He 
began  to  doubt  himself.  He  began  to  suspect  that  he  must 
have  been  foolisb  when  he  once  believed  that  he  was  wise. 
All  this  humbled  him.  He  felt  that  he  was  after  all  a  poor, 
weak  mortal,  who  in  the  true  trial  of  life,  the  furnace  of 
affliction,  was  no  better  than  the  common  peasant  whom  he 
once  so  despised. 

The  One  of  whom  he  read  seemed  to  be  the  truly  wise. 

Had  he  not  need  to  come  to  him  ?  Had  he  no  sin  to  be 
pardoned  ?  This  was  the  question  that  came  to  him,  —  sin. 
Looking  back  now  on  the  past,  and  looking  in  upon  his  own 
lieart,  he  saw  himself  in  a  very  diflferent  light.  He  had 
ceased  to  believe  in  himself.  The  current  of  his  feelings 
had  changed.  He  began  to  see  himself  as  he  was.  All  his 
life  he  had  thought  that  he  was  following  the  Socratic  maxim, 
"  Know  thyself!  "  But  he  felt  that  he  had  never  begun  to 
know  himself  till  now.  Now  all  his  fond  self-love,  his  per- 
fect self-satisfaction,  his  false  assumption  of  wisdom,  and  of 
philosophic  fairness,  his  real  weakness,  and  folly,  all  these 
appeared  before  liim. 

When  he  thought  how  long  he  had  held  aloof  from  the 
One  of  whom  he  read,  he  began  to  fear  that  this  offended 
One  would  uow  refuse  to  listen  to  him.  Out  of  this  dread 
came  great  sorrow. 

"  Oh  that  I  knew  where  I  might  find  him !  "  This  became 
bis  feeling.  Above  all  else  he  wished  to  know  him  as  Hel- 
ena knew  him ;  to  go  to  him,  and  so  gain  rest  for  his  soul. 

Labeo  had  his  own  thoughts  which  he  kept  to  himself. 


The  All  n  is  try  of  Sorrozu. 


83 


But  tliere  came  over  hiin  a  great  change,  which  Cineas 
could  not  help  seeing.  His  despair  passed  away,  ^  stern 
fixity  of  his  grief  relaxed.  At  last  one  day  he  touched  upon 
a  subject  thus  far  sacred,  and  for  the  first  time  mentioned 
the  name  of  his  son. 

"  Cineas,  I  know  not  what  you  find  in  that  book,  but  it 
seems  to  me  like  a  voice  from  heaven.  Once  I  could  not 
have  felt  thus,  but  I  am  much  changed  from  my  former 
self. 

"  Cineas,  my  friend,  my  brother,"  said  Labeo,  and  as  he 
spoke  he  took  the  hand  of  the  other,  and  held  it  almost  con- 
vulsively. *'  Listen  to  me,  and  I  will  tell  you  what  is  in  my 
heart. 

"  Cineas,  do  you  remember  the  words  which  he  said  to 
me  ?  Do  you  remember  ?  Do  you  recall  the  time  when 
once  I  tried  to  kill  myself  and  I  heard  the  voice  of  Mai'- 
cus, — 

" '  Father,  we  will  meet  again  '  ? 

"  Cineas,  those  words  have  never  ceased  to  be  sounded  in 
my  ears  since  he  left  me.  'Father,  I  will  be  thee  first.' 
'  Father,  we  will  meet  again.' 

"  It  was  not  only  his  words,  but  his  voice,  with  that  unut- 
terable fondness  that  he  always  expressed  when  he  spoke  to 
me. 

"  Cineas,  that  voice  has  attended  me  everywhere.  I  have 
heard  it  in  my  tent  at  night,  on  the  march,  iu  the  battle, 
always.     I  have  heard  it  in  my  dreams. 

"  O  my  friend,  and  my  brother,  what  is  this  voice  ?  It  is 
like  that  divine  voice  of  which  Socrates  used  to  speak.  It 
turns  me  from  evil.     Will  it  not  lead  me  to  good  ? 

"  For  when  I  hear  you  read  that  book,  I  find  out  what  I 
am.  There  is  sin  in  me.  Will  this  One  of  whom  you  read, 
and  whom  Marcus  loved,  will  he  look  upon  one  like  me  ?  " 

Cineas  said  nothing.  Tears  fell  from  his  •eyes.  He 
pressed  the  hand  of  Labeo,  and  pointed  to  the  book. 

"  Yes,  yes,  dear  friend.     You  can  tell  me  nothing.     We 


'  iiJ' 


li 


ill  I'l 

i 


384 


The  Ministry  of  Sorrow. 


botli  seek  the  same  One.  Let  us  study  it  together.  Let  us 
be  boys  again,  and  sit  at  the  feet  of  that '  Master '  of  whom 
we  have  been  reading  tliere." 

Under  the  influence  of  these  new  desires,  life  became 
changed.  The  two  frionds  had  an  object  before  them,  a 
searcli,  an  aim  as  liigh  as  heaven. 

Labeo  felt  the  effects  of  this.  His  recovery  to  health  be- 
came rapid,  and  soon  he  was  fully  restored. 

Then  they  departed  to  Ptolemais,  and  after  that  to  Cicsa- 
rea. 

Here  they  heard  ^.tf  the  astounding  events  which  had  oc- 
curred at  Rome.  In  their  secluded  village  they  had  been 
ignorant  of  everything. 

Nero  was  dead.  Galba  was  dead.  Otho  had  followed. 
A  fourth  was  now  on  the  throne,  —  Vitellius. 

The  war  in  Judea  was  suspended,  for  the  soldiers  had 
before  them  other  aims.  They  were  not  willing  that  the 
empire  of  the  world  should  be  tossed  backward  and  for- 
ward from  one  general  to  another  by  the  armies  of  the  West. 
They  thought  that  the  armies  of  the  East  should  have  sorae- 
tliing  to  say. 

On  Cineas'  arrival,  he  found  that  some  months  previously 
an  order  had  come  for  his  arrest.  The  arrest  had  not  been 
made,  partly  on  account  of  his  retired  position,  and  partly 
on  account  of  Nero's  death.  Yet  Cineas  on  no  account 
wished  to  have  this  impending  over  him.  He  therefore 
sought  an  interview  with  Vespasian,  and  asked  his  interfer- 
ence. This  Vespasian  at  once  granted,  and  took  it  upon 
himself  to  destroy  the  imperial  warrant. 

Vespasian  himself  was  soon  to  issue  imperial  warrants. 
The  army  vsaw  in  him  the  fittest  claimant  to  the  throne  of 
the  world.  The  great  general  turned  from  Judea  to  Rome, 
and  after  securing  his  affairs  in  the  East,  he  sailed  to  Italy. 
There  a  sh<^'t  time  only  intervened  between  his  arrival  and 
his  attainment  of  imperial  power. 

Meantime,  Cineas  and  Labeo  waited  in  Caesarea. 


XXXVIII. 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 

^  last  Vespasian  was  secure  on  the  throne  of  the 
world.     The   Roman  armies  had  leisure  to  renew 
f^^l    ^^^^^  conquests  in  all  directions,  and  Titus  hastened 
^«fe«fl    to  i^ake  an  end  of  the  war  in  Judea. 

Jerusalem  was  the  grand  point  of  attack.  All 
the  struggle  centred  around  this.  All  other  strong- 
holds had  been  captured,  or  rendered  useless  ;  but 
there  yet  remained  the  greatest  stronghold  of  all,  mighty  by 
situation,  but  to  the  Jews  mightier  still  from  the  favor  of  the 
Most  High. 

Backward  and  still  backward  the  Jewish  armies  had  been 
driven,  till  at  last  they  had  all  sought  the  common  centre. 
Rut  Jerusalem  hud  to  receive  many  others,  who  came  and 
demanded  admittance.  The  solemn  festival  of  the  Passover 
arrived,  and  the  tribes  came  up  to  celebrate  it.  Multitudes 
thronged  there,  not  terrified  by  the  danger  of  the  time,  and 
not  thinking  of  evil.  They  came  to  follow  the  customs  of 
their  ancestors,  and  commemorate  the  deliverance  from 
Egypt.  More  than  two  millions  of  people  filled  the  nari-ow 
streets  of  the  Holy  city,  and  crowded  themselves  within  its 
walls,  living  in  huts  or  in  temporary  shelters,  and  expecting 
in  a  few  days  to  return  to  their  homes. 

But  to  these  people,  thus  crowded  together,  there  came 
the  news  of  the  advance  of  the  Romans.  At  first  they  were 
afraid  to  leave,  for  fear  of  the  enemy ;  at  last  they  could  not 
leave,  for  the  enemy  stood  before  their  eyes. 

The  enemy  long  dreaded  appeared  at  last.     There,  on  that 

33  (385) 


386  The  luill  of  yc7'7isalcm. 

side  of  the  city  where  the  ground  was  less  precij)itous,  where 
Bezetha  lay,  the  Roman  armies  pre{)ared  to  make  their  camp. 

If  Jerusalem  had  been,  as  it  once  was,  with  order  and  law 
supreme,  then  it  might  have  baffled  even  the  genius  of  Titus, 
and  the  armies  of  Rome.  Put  order  and  law  had  long  since 
departed.  In  the  fury  of  popular  excitement  all  govern- 
ment had  become  impossible,  the  city  became  a  prey  to  mad- 
ness and  fanaticism.  Anarchy  ruled  supreme,  the  most 
venerable  offices  were  trampled  in  the  dust,  and  the  time- 
honored  dignity  of  Pligh  Pi'iest  had  been  bestowed  by  an 
unruly  mob  upon  an  ignorant  rustic.  The  Romans  had  been 
driven  from  the  city,  but  in  their  place  there  came  those  who 
were  far  worse  than  the  Romans,  men  who  sought  to  make 
use  of  the  miseries  of  their  country  for  their  own  advance- 
ment, and  filled  the  city  with  the  carnage  of  civil  war  when 
the  enemy  was  at  their  gates. 

Jerusalem  had  more  than  the  Romans  to  encounter.  It 
fought  with  its  own  self.  • 

Within  the  walls  were  three  rival  camps  and  three  hostile 
armies.  Eleazer  held  the  temple,  John  the  upper  city,  and 
Simon  the  lower.  These  three  fought  incessantly  among 
themselves,  with  a  persevering  valor  and  an  obstinate  feroc- 
ity, that  might  have  secured  triumi)h  to  the  nation  if  they 
had  been  directed  against  the  common  enemy. 

Incessant  war  was  waged  between  these  three  leaders  and 
their  followers.  No  plan  of  defence  against  the  Romans  was 
possible.  The  city  was  the  prey  of  these  contending  fac- 
tions. The  wretched  people  had  to  suffer  from  the  violence 
of  these  miscreants.  The  contending  parties,  in  their  fury, 
thought  of  nothing  and  spared  nothing.  Their  madness 
reached  its  height  when  in  some  of  their  contests  the  store- 
houses where  the  supplies  of  grain  were  kept  caught  fire,  and 
the  hope  of  sustenance  for  Jerusalem  perished  in  that  flame. 

It  was  to  such  a  place  as  this  that  Isaac  came,  after  Cineas 
had  given  him  his  freedom.  He  found  his  countrymen  en- 
joying the  respite  which  was  given  by  the  departure  of  Ves- 


The  Fall  of  Jcrtiuilem. 


387 


pfvsian  to  Italy.  He  found  the  city  full  of  dissensions,  filled 
with  the  dospevadoes  of  the  whole  country,  who  had  come 
here  less  for  safety  tlian  lor  ambition  or  plunder.  He  saw 
men  vvhom  he  loathed  and  despi.  od  filling;  the  hij^hest  place ; 
he  saw  the  city  split  up  into  faction,',  wIumi  union  was  the 
most  needful  thing  ;  he  saw  these  faction"  \.'asting  away  the 
strength  of  Israel,  and  found  none  who  were  willing  or  able 
to  listen  to  the  voice  of  reason. 

F'or  faction  was  in  the  ascendant,  and  patriotism  was  lost 
sight  of.  Simon  and  John  hji^  their  followers,  who  were  de- 
voted to  them.  The  rest  of  the  people  stood  by  helple  ,s,  a 
prey  to  both.  The  city  was  filled  with  lawlessness  and  con- 
fusion. Divided  against  itself,  it  awaited  the  mighty  army 
of  Rome. 

Such  things  as  these  filled  Isaac  with  bitterness.  He  tried 
to  do  all  that  might  be  done  by  one  honest  and  fervid  soul. 
There  were  times  when  his  fieiy  words  produced  some  effect, 
but  generally  those  to  whom  he  spoke  had  other  interests. 
He  could  do  nothing  with  the  followers  of  Simon,  and  the 
rest  of  the  people  were  helpless.  There  was  indeed  one 
thing  which  he  might  have  easily  done.  He  might  have 
roused  the  people  of  Bezetha  against  the  tyranny  of  Simon, 
and  led  them  against  him.  Perhaps  he  might  have  cast  out 
this  man ;  perhaps  he  might  have  gone  further,  and  cast  out 
Jolm.  But  this  was  a  thing  which  Isaac  never  thought  of 
attempting.  He  was  not  the  man  to  add  to  the  disti*ess  of 
the  city  by  raising  a  fourth  faction.  He  rather  sought  to 
conciliate,  to  proclaim  more  fully  the  old  belief  in  the  com- 
ing of  the  Messiah  ;  to  exhort  all  men  to  union  for  his  sake, 
so  that  when  he  came  they  might  be  found  watching. 

But  Isaac's  eflPorts  after  unity  and  peace  and  faith  were  all 
in  vain.  There  seemed  a  strange  perversity  among  the  people, 
and  honest  men  were  few,  and  the  zealot  and  crazed  fanatic, 
had  all  the  control  of  affairs.  It  was  hard  for  Isaac  to  main- 
tain that  firm  faith  which  he  had  always  cherished  hitherto. 
The  struggle  between  faith  and  despair  was  terrible.    Reason 


388 


The  Fall  of  'Jerusalem. 


showed  him  that  the  city  was  doomed ;  it  showed  no  possible 
prospect  of  escape ;  faith  tried  but  feebly  to  cling  to  its  old 
belief.  The  face  of  the  God  of  Israel  seemed  averted,  and 
it  was  hard  to  think  that  he  yet  intended  to  save  the  chosen 
people.  But  it  was  harder  yet  to  think  that  after  all  his 
promises,  the  chosen  people  could  be  destroyed.  This  was 
the  struggle  in  the  mind  of  Isaac,  and  the  struggle  tilled  him 
with  agony.  lie  tried  to  look  on  all  the  horrors  around  him 
as  the  punishment  of  national  sin.  But  punishment  when  it 
came  from  God  was  chastening  in  its  effect,  and  Isaac  saw 
that  there  was  no  purifying  or  chastening  here.  It  rather 
looked  like  that  madness  which  precedes  destruction,  like 
tiie  break  up  of  national  life,  like  the  ruin  and  the  death  of 
Israel. 

All  the  circumstances  around  tended  to  deepen  his  de- 
spair. On  tlie  day  on  which  he  entered  the  city  he  saw  a 
figure  on  the  walls,  —  a  gaunt,  emaciated  being,  who  looked 
like  one  of  the  old  Hebrew  pi'ophets,  but  fierce  and  wild, 
with  a  fiery  eye,  that  gazed  evermore  on  vacancy,  and  a 
crazed  brain.  He  had  only  one  word,  only  one  utterance, 
and  that  he  never  ceased  to  repeat.  Upon  Isaac  these 
words,  then  heai'd  by  him  for  the  first  time,  produced  an 
awful  dread,  filling  his  mind  with  forebodings  of  that  on 
which  he  dared  not  let  his  thoughts  dwell,  sending  through 
all  his  frame  a  thrill  of  horroi*. 

This  was  what  the  wild  prophet  said  as  he  strode  along 
the  walls,  the  place  which  he  chose  to  frequent,  roarmg  out 
his  fearful  words  in  a  hoarse  and  terrible  voice,  with  one 
monotonous  tone  that  never  varied:  — 


"  A  voice  from  tlie  East ! 
A  voice  from  the  West ! 
A  voice  from  the  four  winds ! 
A  voice  against  Jerusalem,  and  the  Holy  House  I 
A  voice  against  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride ! 
A  voice  against  the  whole  people ! 
Woe  to  Jerusalem ! 
Woe,  woe  to  Jerusalem !  " 


The  Fall  of  ycrusalem. 


389 


Isaac  had  heard  of  this  man  before.  Tlie  people  had  be- 
come familiar  with  his  cry.  For  seven  years  he  had  shouted 
it  over  all  Jiulea.  He  had  been  seoiir;^c(l  and  tortured  and 
punished  in  all  possible  ways.  In  vain.  He  uttered  nothing 
but  his  cry  of  *'  Woe  to  Jerusalem ! "  and  still  by  night 
and  by  day  the  same  cry  sounded,  —  "  Woe,  woe  to  Jerusa- 
lem ! " 

Though  most  of  the  people  had  grown  familiar  with  this 
man,  and  looked  upon  his  cry  as  the  utterance  of  a  poor, 
harmless  idiot,  his  words  produced  a  different  effect  upon 
those  who  heard  them  for  the  first  time.  They  came  to 
Isaac  with  a  fearful  meaning,  and  sounded  like  the  utterance 
of  a  prophet  of  God. 

Other  horrors  were  not  wanting.  On  the  night  when 
Isaac  first  entered,  as  he  walked  sadly  about  among  the 
throng,  he  noticed  that  all  were  looking  up  to  the  skies  with 
faces  of  fear.  He  looked  there,  and  the  fear  of  all  was  com- 
municated to  his  own  heart.  There  in  the  midst  of  the 
heavens  he  beheld  the  outline  of  a  comet,  shaped  like  a 
sword,  which  seemed  to  point  to  the  city,  and  promise  ruin. 
At  first  there  was  nothing  but  panic.  Night  succeeded  to 
night,  and  the  awful  form  grew  larger  and  more  vivid,  burn- 
ing fiery  red  in  the  black  sky,  extending  from  the  horizon  to 
the  zenith,  wrathful  and  menacing.  What  meant  this?  Was 
it  indeed  the  herald  of  ruin  ? 

Isaac,  in  his  passionate  love  for  Israel,  and  in  his  strong 
faith  in  the  God  of  Israel,  after  the  first  panic  had  subsided, 
refused  to  look  upon  that  sign  with  fear. 

"  No,"  he  cried,  and  he  harangued  the  people  everywhere, 
"  no,  it  is  not  a  sign  of  terror,  but  of  hope.  It  is  the  prom- 
ise of  the  Deliverer.  For  how  must  Israel  be  dtdivered  ? 
As  she  always  has  been,  —  by  the  sword.  Not,  however, 
by  a  human  sword,  but  by  the  sword  of  that  heavenly  One 
who  now  places  it  there  before  our  eyes,  among  the  stars,  to 
tell  us  that  he  is  faithful.     Let  us  prepare  for  him.     He  is 

coming ! 

33* 


^ 


390 


The  Fall  of  ycrtisalcm. 


"  Our  eyes  behold  the  mnnifeat  glory  of  his  coming.  Alle- 
luia !     rraised  \w.  his  iiiinic  !  " 

And  liie  impiifisioned  words  of  Isaac,  the  utterance  of  a 
faith  that  for  a  moment  burst  through  the  gloom  of  despair, 
and  clung  to  heaven  and  to  hope,  fired  the  hearts  of  the  i)eo- 
ple.  They,  too,  would  hope  and  believe  and  praise.  They 
took  up  his  cry,  and  ten  thousand  voices  shouted,  "  Alle- 
luia ! " 

But  the  people  in  their  fury  and  excitement  could  not 
always  cherish  hope.  Their  feelings  alternated.  Hope 
turned  to  despair.  Panics  ran  among  them.  Men's  minds 
became  disordered.  Visions  appeared  in  the  air ;  shaj)e3 
glided  through  the  gloom  ;  sounds  of  no  mortal  nature  seemed 
to  strike  upon  the  disordered  senses  of  many. 

Ten  thousand  rumors  every  day  passed  from  mouth  to 
mouth,  filling  all  with  supernatural  dread.  Brilliant  lights 
glowed  about  the  temple  ;  one  of  the  gates  opened  of  its 
own  accord  ;  prodigy  succeeded  prodigy,  and  each  created 
fear  or  hope ;  and  thus  faith  and  despair,  joy  and  terror, 
incessantly  alternated,  till  men  believed  anything  or  every- 
thing, and  the  senses  of  all  became  influenced  by  one  com- 
mon sympathetic  excitement ;  till  the  portents  that  rose 
before  the  imagination  of  one  were  visible  to  all,  till  whole 
crowds  could  look  up  in  the  skies,  and  see  in  the  air  em- 
battled hosts  and  chariots  and  armies,  and  hear  the  noise 
of  battles  and  the  thunder  of  the  war. 

Thus  the  Romans  came  to  such  a  city  in  such  a  state. 
When  the  glittering  files  of  the  Roman  legions  first  appeared 
the  people  had  no  fear.  They  believed  that  in  this  way  the 
enemies  of  Israel  were  brought  before  Jerusalem,  that  all 
might  be  destroyed,  and  the  Most  High  avenge  his  chosen 
ones.  God's  people  were  brought  face  to  face  with  their 
enemies,  and  the  end  would  be  the  complete  destruction  of 
those  enemies. 

This  Isaac  proclaimed,  seeking  to  free  the  hearts  of  all,  and 
hoping  that  if  the  Romans  sat  down  to  the  siege  the  internal 


The  Fall  of  ycrusalem. 


391 


and 
?rnal 


disunion  might  cease.  The  appearance  of  the  hostile  armies 
gave  him  nothing  but  hope  and  comfort.  Faction,  as  he 
thought,  must  die  out  in  the  presence  of  war. 

The  Romans  began  to  form  their  camp  on  the  only  side 
on  which  a  siege  was  possible,  the  lower  city.  Here  be- 
tween them  and  the  upper  city  there  lay  three  massive  walls, 
each  surrounding  a  separate  district;  but  these  walls  on  this 
side  were  the  only  ones  that  could  be  assailed  by  Roman 
engines.     On  the  other  side  were  precipices. 

But  as  the  Romans  began  to  station  themselves  and 
entrench  their  camp,  the  Jews  were  not  idle.  At  the  first 
sight  of  the  enemy,  who  thus  came  before  the  holy  city  with 
arms  and  engines,  a  fury  passed  through  all  the  fanatical 
people. 

Isaac  saw  in  this  the  best  time  for  action,  —  a  time  when 
the  Romans  might  be  attacked  with  the  violence  of  a  sur- 
prise, and  when  Jewish  warriors  could  exert  themselves  in 
that  sudden  and  impetuous  onset  for  which  they  were  famous. 

He  himself  had  become  celebrated  for  his  own  exploits, 
and  particularly  that  at  Jotapata.  Great  numbers  knew 
him  well,  and  followed  him  wherever  he  led.  Living  in  the 
quarter  Buzetha,  which  he  knew  would  be  first  attacked,  he 
determined  for  his  part  to  devote  himself  toward  the  task  of 
beating  back  the  enemy,  hoping  that  the  internal  factions 
at  last  would  fall  to  pieces. 

Now  came  his  first  opportunity,  and,  with  fiery  words  and 
flashing  eyes  and  vehement  gesticulations,  he  went  around 
summoning  all  to  follow  him.  An  immense  multitude  pre- 
pared to  obey. 

The  Romans  were  working  at  their  entrenchments.  The 
tenth  legion  lay  nearest. 

Suddenly  the  gates  were  thrown  open,  and  there  rushed 
forth  an  innumerable  multitude. 

Forming  themselves  on  the  plain,  the  first  men  that  came 
out,  chosen  for  their  valor  and  strength,  advanced  upon  the 
Romans.     Behind  them  came  others  in  vast  throngs,  some 


l!;!' 


392 


Tht  Fall  of  yerusalcm. 


orderly,  others  in  confusion,  but  all  rushing  forward  till  the 
whole  space  grew  black  with  human  beings,  and  still  the 
gates  sent  forth  undiminished  crowds.  For  the  cry  of  that 
attack  passed  through  t'le  city,  and  aii  took  part,  and  men 
who  had  never  seen  or  heard  of  Isaac  now  hurried  out  to 
attack  the  hated  enemy. 

At  the  head  of  all  Isjuic  marched. 

The  Romans  had  not  had  time  to  make  their  trench.  Tin? 
plain  was  open.  With  their  usual  resolution,  and  with 
som(!thing  like  contempt  for  the  multitude  before  them,  they 
formed  their  line  of  battle,  and  awaited  the  onset. 

It  came. 

With  a  cry  that  rose  like  long  successive  peals  of  thunde 
into  the  skies,  and  echoed  among  the  surrounding  heights, 
till  its  long  reverberations  were  box'ne  over  all  the  city,  and 
over  all  the  Roman  camps,  the  Jews  rushed  upc  i  their  ene- 
mies. 

The  Romans  had  already  learned  the  desperation  of  the 
Jews,  and  their  fury  in  attack  ;  but  they  had  never  known 
anything  like  this.  For  here  the  Jews  came  in  hosts  that 
were  overwhelming,  with  a  fury  that  was  ai)palling.  True 
to  their  discipline,  the  Romans  formed  their  ranks  with  spear 
and  shield,  and  withstood  the  first  rush.  But  the  Jews  cared 
nothing  for  spear  and  shield.  Each  man,  in  his  frenzy, 
thought  nothing  of  death,  nothing  of  himself,  but  was  eager 
to  fling  his  body  upon  the  point  of  hostile  spears,  that  so  he 
might  break  their  well-ordered  lines,  and  force  a  way  for  his 
fellows. 

The  Romans  stood  firm  for  a  time.  The  first  rush  was 
repelled,  and  the  second,  and  the  third.  But  the  Jews  only 
recoiled  to  rush  forward  once  more,  and  each  time  the  rush 
was  more  tremendous,  since  it  carried  within  itself  the  ac- 
celerated impulse  that  arose  from  the  increasing  numbers 
that  still  rushed  forward,  and  lent  the  force  of  their  impetus 
to  the  onset  of  the  lines  in  front.  At  last,  at  one  mad  onset 
of  the  Jews,  the  centre  of  the  Roman  line  fell  back  a  little, 


The  Fall  of  yerusalem. 


393 


ITunflreds  of  Jews  flunf^  themselves  there.  Isaac  snatched 
a  Roman  eagle,  and  shouted  to  his  men.  They  rushed  on- 
ward with  new  fervor.  Tlu;  Koman  line  was  broken,  and  in 
an  instant  the  vast  array  of  Jews  poured  through  the  space, 
and  wound  around  the  enemy,  and  assailed  them  in  front 
and  in  the  rear. 

Now  this  was  the  characteristic  of  the  Jews,  that  their  fury- 
remained  undiminished,  but  rather  increased  as  the  figlit 
went  on.  Tlie  Romans  lost  heart.  They  were  awed  by  the 
fierceness  of  their  enemies.  They  were  discouraged  and 
terrified  by  tlu;  break  of  their  lines.  They  found  themselves 
assailed  on  all  sides.  They  could  no  longer  stand  their 
ground.  They  fell  back.  They  retreated.  Panic  came 
over  them,  and  they  fled  in  all  directions,  while  the  Jews 
pursued,  with  Isaac  at  their  head,  bearing  the  captured 
eagle.  »  • 

"Alleluia!  God  hath  given  us  the  victory!  The  God 
of  Israel  is  fighting  for  us  !  " 

Such  was  the  cry  that  rang  out  amid  the  thimder  of  the 
fight,  and  the  Jews  now  fully  believed  that  the  hour  of  their 
redemption  had  come,  and  that  their  enemies  were  in  their 
power. 

But  it  was  only  one  legion  that  had  been  driven  back. 
Others  remained,  firm  in  discipline,  not  overawed,  nor  terri- 
fied. 

Behind  the  tenth  legion  was  that  of  Labeo.  The  soldiers 
had  become  familiar  with  Jewish  attacks,  and  had  been  tested 
in  the  fiercest  confiicts.  The  thunder  of  the  fight  had  roused 
them  all,  and  Labeo  had  Ibim'ed  his  men,  and  as  the  tenth 
legion  fied,  and  the  Jews  pursued,  the  soldiers  of  Labeo 
came  marching  forward  to  renew  the  fight. 

All  the  Roman  army  was  on  the  alert.  Titus  himself  had 
ordered  uj)  all  his  men  to  restore  the  fight.  Legion  after 
legion  was  roused  and  advanced  to  the  front. 

But  the  onset  of  the  Jews,  accelerated  by  th<!  flush  of  vic- 
tory, and  belief  in  the  presence  of  the  (iod  of  Israel,  (jould 
not  easily  be  checked.  * 


394 


The  Fall  of  'Jcrusalein. 


The  men  of  Labeo  stopped  in  their  advance  before  the 
successive  waves  of  that  attack. 

In  front  of  them  raged  an  awful  conflict.  The  Jews  still 
flung  themselves  upon  the  spears  of  the  enemy,  content  if  by- 
death  they  could  open  a  way  to  others,  and  behind  those  who 
fell  others  advanced  furiously,  frantically,  and  the  air  was 
filled  with  yells,  like  those  of  mad  men. 

The  Jews  fell  by  hundreds  and  by  thousands,  but  the  Ro- 
mans fell  also,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  their  rigid  lines 
could  be  maintained,  or  the  living  close  up  so  as  to  fill  the 
place  of  those  who  had  fallen. 

At  last  the  Romans  wavered.  In  vain  Labeo  tried  to 
sustain  his  men.  The  fury  of  the  attack,  so  sustained,  and 
with  such  freshness,  was  too  much  for  them.  He  stood  at 
the  head  of  his  men,  and  freely  exposed  his  life ;  he  called 
on  them  by  all  that  they  valued  most  highly  to  stand  firm. 
Cineas,  at  the  other  end  of  the  line,  devoted  himself  with 
that  heroism  which  lie  had  always  shown.  But  the  Romans 
yielded  ground,  and  though  their  lines  remained  unbroken, 
still  they  were  forced  back,  step  by  step  it  is  true,  but  the 
very  fact  of  retreating  served  to  discourage  them. 

Backward  and  still  backward  they  found  themselves 
forced. 

In  the  midst  of  the  fight  Cineas  recognized  Isaac,  who 
still  headed  his  men,  and  held  aloft  the  captured  eagle,  and, 
though  in  the  thickest  of  the  fight,  seemed  yet  to  bear  a 
charmed  life,  for  of  all  the  blows  aimed  at  him  none  took 
elfect.  All  around  him  his  men  fell,  but  still  Isaac  fouo'ht 
and  called  on  his  men,  and  his  cry  rang  out  sharp  and 
clear,  — 

"  Alleluia !  for  the  God  of  Israel  is  here !  " 

Tlien  Cineas  thought  that  he  had  done  all  this  by  setting 
Isaac  free,  and  it  was  with  bitterness  that  he  reproached 
himself. 

Legion  after  legion  came  up.  Titus  was  in  the  midst  of 
his  soldiers,  calling  on  them  to  stand,  to  advance,  to  take 
vengeance  on  these  contemptible  Jews,  whom  they  had  so 


The  Fall  of  ycrusalem. 


395 


often  conquered.  And  some  stood  firm ;  but  in  the  centre 
of  the  fight,  where  the  battle  was  fiercest,  there  they  fell 
back. 

In  their  retreat  they  were  pressed  to  the  side  of  a  decliv- 
ity, up  which  they  were  forced.  Here  the  soldiers  could  see 
the  full  extent  of  the  force  that  assailed  them.  Between 
them  and  the  city  the  plain  was  black  with  human  beings, 
all  rushing  forward.     The  sight  filled  them  with  awe. 

Still  they  retreated. 

Cineas,  in  his  despair,  had  rushed  over  to  Labeo,  and  in 
the  midst  of  the  fight  the  two  friends  took  a  hasty  counsel  as 
to  what  might  be  done.  Far  and  wide  the  battle  raged. 
They  saw  the  Romans  falling  back,  pressed  hard  by  their 
fiery  foe. 

They  saw,  however,  that  the  fight  was  all  in  front ;  that 
the  Jews  were  undisciplined  and  gained  the  advantage  by 
brute  strength  and  reckless  devotion  rather  than  by  anything 
like  strategy. 

Their  flanks  and  their  rear  were  all  exposed.  It  needed 
but  an  instant  to  make  all  this  plain. 

By  a  dexterous  movement,  Labeo  disengaged  his  men 
from  the  fight,  and,  falling  backward,  he  moved  rapidly  over 
the  hill  slope  toward  the  left.  The  Jews  rushed  forward, 
some  still  assailing  his  legion,  others  seeking  to  enclose  the 
other  Romans.  But  Labeo  led  his  men  rapidly  onward  for 
the  space  of  about  half  a  mile,  and  then  with  a  shout  his  sol- 
diers fell  upon  the  flank  of  the  Jewish  host. 

Before  the  rush  of  that  solid  body  of  men  everything  gave 
way.  The  Jews  were  not  prepared  for  an  attack  in  that 
quarter.  They  turned  to  encounter  it,  but  in  vain.  Their 
devotion,  their  recklessness,  was  as  great  as  before,  but  they 
had  not  the  same  advantage.  In  front  the  pressure  was  all 
one  way,  and  those  behind  urged  forward  those  in  front. 
Here  all  was  confused  and  disorganized. 

The  Romans  swept  the  Jews  before  them  helplessly. 

They  marched  right  across  the  entire  field,  and  then 
wheeled  and  attacked  their  enemy  from  behind. 


T»TM|W 


396 


The  Fall  of  'Jerusalem. 


Enclosed  between  two  hostile  lines  the  Jews  fell  in  every 
direction.  They  soon  found  out  their  danger.  Now  Roman 
discipline  told  with  fatal  effect  against  their  own  disordered 
crowds.  The  Romans  in  front,  who  had  retreated,  turned 
once  more,  stimulated  by  the  sight  of  their  own  men  in  the 
rear  of  the  enemy. 

The  Jews  were  overpowered. 

Panic  spread  through  them.  They  sought  to  escape. 
Only  one  way  was  possible,  and  that  was  toward  a  steep 
declivity  that  lay  on  one  side.  Here  they  were  driven. 
They  were  hui'led  down  the  descent  in  dense  masses,  and 
the  Romans,  following  fast  after,  had  all  the  advantage  of  a 
more  elevated  position. 

Here  down  this  declivity,  with  the  Romans  pressing  after 
them,  confused,  disordered,  and  disheartened,  the  Jews  were 
all  crowded  together,  and  scarce  capable  of  resistance.  The 
figlit  became  a  massacre. 

Thousands  who  could  disengage  themselves  fled  along  the 
valley  back  to  the  city,  and  were  saved ;  but  thousands  fell 
beneath  the  Romans. 

One  band  of  men  there  was  which  did  not  share  the  panic. 
Driven  back  they  still  fought,  and  sternly  fell  back  toward 
the  gate  from  which  they  had  come.  These  were  the  men 
whom  Isaac  had  led  out. 

In  front  of  them  stood  Isaac  still  holding  the  captured 
standard.  In  vain  the  Romans  rushed  upon  these  men, 
seeking  to  recover  their  eagle.  They  were  forced  back  by 
the  unquailing  valor  of  the  Jews.  And  so,  slowly,  and 
obstinately,  Isaac  led  back  his  men,  and  the  gates  were 
opened,  and  if  they  were  defeated  they  at  least  had  the  glory 
of  the  captured  eagle. 

Such  was  the  result  of  the  fierce  conflict. 

But  the  Jews  did  not  lose  heart.  Day  after  day  passed, 
and  they  made  new  attacks.  The  Romans  now  had  com- 
pleted their  entrenchments,  and  could  not  be  so  easily  driven 
back.     Alternate  successes  and  reverses  marked  each  day, 


The  Fall  of  yerusalc?n. 


397 


* 


iptured 
men, 

ick  by 
and 
were 
glory 


passed, 
corn- 
driven 
h  day, 


but  the  Roman.-;  steadily  gained,  and  the  Jews  steadily  lost, 
till  at  last  the  Roman  engines  were  ready  to  be  brought 
against  the  walls. 

The  ponderous  engines  of  war  which  formed  the  Roman 
artillery  were  brought  up;  the  catapults  and  balistas  hurled 
their  javelins  and  stones  u[)on  the  doomed  city ;  the  batter- 
ing-ram thundered  upon  tiie  solid  walls. 

Showers  of  stones  and  darts  fell  incessantly.  At  first  the 
enormous  size  of  some  of  these  stones,  and  their  terrific  effect 
when  they  fell  and  crushed  all  before  them,  startled  the  Jews. 
One  engine  there  was  which  threw  a  stone  of  enormous  size. 
When  this  missile  came  roaring  through  the  air,  the  Jews 
on  the  walls  would  give  warning  and  seek  shelter. 

The  prophet  of  woe  walked  around  the  walls  among  the 
fighting  men,  denouncing  woe  as  before.  Few  regarded 
him  now.  But  a  thing  happened  one  day  which  made  many 
regard  both  him  and  his  prophecy. 

As  he  walked  along  the  walls  he  suddenly  stopped  and 
repeated  his  ill-omened  cry,  — 

"  Woe  to  Jerusalem ! 
Woe,  woe  to  Jerusalem!  " 

He  paused  for  a  moment. 

"  The  rock  is  coming !  "  cried  the  Jewish  soldiers  as  they 
saw  the  flight  of  the  huge  missile  mentioned  before. 

All  the  soldiers  rushed  in  different  directions  for  safety. 

The  prophet  stood  still. 

Then  his  voice  rang  out  with  terrible  emphasis,  — 

"  Woe  to  Jerusalem ! 
Woe,  woe  to  Jerusalem ! 
'  Woe  to  myself  ! 

Woe,  woe  to  myself  !  " 

The  enormous  stone  rushed  through  the  air.  It  struck 
the  speaker  and  dashed  him  to  pieces. 

The  .  oice  of  the  proi)het  of  woe  was  heard  no  more,  for 
the  woe  itself  had  come. 
34 


398 


The  Fall  of  ycrusalem. 


Batteripg-rams  dashed  against  the  walls,  and  beneath  the 
reiterated  blows  the  massive  erections  trembled.  The  Jews 
were  incessant  in  their  efforts  to  avert  the  danger.  They 
made  bold  sallies.  They  burned  the  rams.  They  drove 
back  the  enemy.  But  over  all  the  mad  assaults  of  the  Jews 
the  patient  firmness  of  Roman  discipline  steadily  triumphed. 

At  last  a  wide  breach  was  made.  The  Romans  rushed  to 
the  attack.  A  terrible  conflict  followed.  The  Romans 
entered  and  fought  their  way  along  the  streets.  The  Jews 
fell  back  in  spite  of  all  their  valor,  and  at  last  took  refuge  in 
the  sj)ace  that  was  enclosed  by  the  second  wall,  Akra.  The 
lower  city  was  in  possession  of  the  Romans.  Titus  made 
his  camp  in  the  midst  of  it,  and  then  prepared  to  attack  the 
second  wall. 

The  Jews  were  disheartened  by  the  capture  of  the  lower 
city,  but  were  not  yet  despairing.  They  thought  that  the 
upper  city  could  yet  protect  them.  They  had  cov  fidence  in 
the  massive  walls  and  in  the  steep  declirities.  The  people 
were  encouraged  by  the  hope  that  the  ho  ir  would  yet  come 
when  their  Deliverer  would  appear,  .\mong  those  who 
sought  by  such  hopes  to  stimulate  them  to  action,  the  most 
prominent  was  Isaac.  "  The  time  has  not  yet  come,"  he 
cried ;  "  God  will  not  come  till  man  has  done  his  best.  But 
at  last,  when  we  can  do  no  more,  then  will  he  appear." 

And  the  people  took  fresh  courage. 

But  while  the  Romans  were  fighting  from  without,  the 
factions  ceased  not.  The  external  enemy,  and  the  common 
danger  could  not  quell  the  fierce  strife  that  raged  within  the 
walls.  At  times  the  two  parties  would  unite,  but  when  the 
immediate  impulse  had  ceased,  then  they  would  return  to 
their  former  hostility,  and  Simon  and  John  would  renew 
their  mad  struggle. 

Thus  the  city  wasted  its  strength.  Horrors  without  end 
succeeded  each  other  within  the  walls. 

Despair  came  more  and  more  frequently  to  the  heart  of 
Isaac.     His  faith  faltered.     He  could  not  see  the  end  of  this. 


The  Fall  of  ycrusalem. 


309 


The  capture  of  the  city  he  would  not  believe  in  for  a  mo- 
ment. The  desecration  of  the  Temple  of  God  seemed  incred- 
ible, and  impossible.  The  Deliverer  must  come,  —  but 
when,  alas!  when? 

"  How  long,  0  Lord,  how  long !  " 


end 


Such  was  the  cry  that  escaped  from  the  despairing  soul 
of  Isaac  as  he  saw  the  horrors  around.  Such  horrors  seemed 
too  great.  Such  horrors  could  not  in  his  mind  be  compen- 
sated for,  even  by  that  final  glory  which  he  looked  for. 

His  only  consolation  was  war.  The  madness  of  the  fight 
could  distract  his  thoughts,  and  he  could  feel  some  satisfac- 
tion in  beating  back  the  enemies  of  Israel. 

"  But  0  Lord,  how  long!" 

Alas,  he  knew  not  the  full  extent  of  the  agony  that  yet 
awaited  all  within  the  doomed  city. 

Meanwhile,  the  people,  in  the  extremity  of  their  sufferings, 
knew  not  what  to  do.  Many  sought  to  escape.  Large 
numbers  were  kindly  received  by  Titus,  whose  humanity 
was  great,  and  whose  pity  for  the  wretched  Jews  was  unfal- 
tering. But  after  a  time  the  Jews  made  use  of  their  desper- 
ate situation  to  work  on  the  feelings  of  Titus,  and  entrap  the 
Romans  into  snares.  Many  Romans  had  already  perished 
through  their  own  merciful  feelings.  Such  things  as  these 
put  an  end  to  all  mercy.  No  more  Jews  could  escape. 
They  were  shut  up  in  the  city,  and  exit  was  impossible. 

Titus,  from  his  camp  within  the  enclosure  of  the  lower 
city,  prepared  to  attack  the  second  wall.  His  rams  at  length 
made  a  wide  breach  here,  and  his  eager  soldiers  rushed  into 
the  upper  district. 

At  first  the  Jews  fell  back,  and  allowed  the  Romans  to 
penetrate  to  a  considerable  distance.  Carried  away  by  their 
own  ardor  the  Romans  marched  through  the  streets,  driving 
back  tlieir  enemies  and  thinking  that  victory  was  theirs. 


400 


The  Fall  of  ycrusalcm. 


Suddenly,  however,  an  immense  multitude  of  Jews  made 
an  attack  upon  them  near  the  broken  wall.  The  breach  had 
remained  as  it  was.  It  had  not  been  widened  so  as  to  admit 
of  a  large  number  entering  at  one  time,  and  those  who  were 
already  within  could  not  readily  be  reinforced.  Here  the 
Jews  made  their  attack.  A  large  body  stood  by  the  breach, 
repelling  those  who  sought  to  enter.  Others  fell  upon  the 
Romans  who  were  already  within  tlie  wall.  Suddenly  every 
house  seemed  filled  with  frenzied  people.  Every  side  street 
formed  an  avenue  for  the  rush  of  some  assailin*;  force.  The 
Romans  were  surrounded  on  all  sides.  All  around  their 
enemies  rushed  upon  them.  From  the  roofs  of  the  houses 
vast  multitudes  hurled  down  rocks  and  stones  and  darts  and 
fiery  missiles. 

The  Romans  fought  with  their  usual  resolution,  but  they 
were  outnumbered,  and  taken  at  an  enormous  disadvantage. 
They  fell  on  all  sides  before  their  enemies.  All  around  and 
all  above  them  seemed  filled  with  assailants.  They  sought 
to  retreat,  but  they  were  hemmed  in  among  the  narrow 
streets,  and  retreat  was  impossible.  Some  escaped,  but  most 
fell  victims  to  Jewish  vengeance. 

At  one  place  there  stood  a  Roman  officer,  who,  with  his 
back  to  the  wall,  resisted  for  a  long  time  a  crowd  of  enemies. 
His  long  resistance  at  last  made  him  weary,  and  though  he 
still  fought,  there  was  less  vigor  in  his  blows. 

Suddenly  one  of  the  fiercest  leaders  of  the  Jews  rushed 
up  to  him  with  uplifted  weapon. 

The  Roman  held  up  his  shield  and  prepared  to  fight  this 
new  enemy. 

But  his  enemy  suddenly  dropped  his  spear. 

"  Cineas ! " 

« Isaac ! " 

The  recognition  was  inslantaneous  and  mutual. 

"  Back  !  Back ! "  shouted  Isaac  to  his  followers.  "  This 
man  is  my  prisoner." 

But  his  followers  did  not  seem  very  willing  to  obey.  In 
thoir  fuiy  they  rushed  on,  and  in  another  moment  Cineas 


The  Fall  of  ycrusalcm. 


401 


would  have  fallen.  But,  as  Cineas  prepared  to  defend  him- 
self, Isaac  threw  himself  before  him. 

"Back!"  he  shouted.  "The  first  man  that  touches  him 
dies.     lie  is  mine." 

There  was  something  in  the  voice  and  attitude  of  Isaac 
which  seemed  to  strike  awe  into  the  crowd.     They  fell  back. 

"  This  way,"  cried  Isaac  to  Cineas.  "  Quick,  or  you  are 
lost." 

And  he  darted  into  a  doorway.     Cineas  followed. 

Isaac  hurried  up  to  the  house-top,  and  passed  along  several 
roofs.  Once  he  was  stopped,  but  he  told  the  men  who  stopped 
him  that  Cineas  was  his  prisoner,  whom  he  was  leading 
away.     He  was  then  allowed  to  go  on,  though  reluctiintly. 

Then  Isaac  passed  over  many  houses,  down  the  length  of 
an  entire  street.  All  around  there  was  still  the  noise  of  the 
conflict,  the  trium})hant  shouts  of  the  Jews,  mingling  with 
the  groans  of  the  wounded  and  dying. 

At  last  Isaac  reached  a  house,  and  began  to  descend  the 
opening  in  the  roof.  Cineas  followed,  and  at  length  found 
himself  in  a  room.  The  house  appeared  to  be  without  in- 
habitants. Looking  out  of  tlie  window,  he  saw  in  the  court- 
yard a  number  of  dead  bodies. 

Isaac  noticed  the  start  which  Cineas  gave  at  the  sight. 
For  the  dead  bodies  were  those  of  women  and  children. 

"  They  were  starved  to  death  ! "  said  Isaac,  in  a  hoarse 
whisper,  that  thrilled  through  the  heart  of  Cineas. 

"  Here,"  said  Isaac,  after  a  pause,  "  here  you  are  s.afe." 

Cineas  said  nothing,  but  stood  looking  at  the  bodies  in  the 
court-yard. 

"  Alas ! "  he  exclaimed  at  last.     "  How  you  are  suffer- 


ing 


"  Suffering !  "  said  Isaac,  —  "  it  is  a  suffering  beyond 
words,  —  beyond  thought." 

"  Why  will  you  not  yield  in  time  ?  "  sighed  Cineas. 

"  Yield !  Never ! "  cried  Isaac,  with  his  old  vehemence, 
"  P^very  Jew  will  die  first.     The  whole  nation  stakes  its  ex- 

34* 


402 


The  Fall  of  'Jerusalem. 


ister"e  on  this  fight,  —  the  whole  nation,  men,  women,  and 
children." 

"  There  can  be  only  one  end,"  said  Cineas.  "  Who  can 
withstand  Rome  ?  " 

"  The  Jews  have  hopes  of  which  the  Romans  know 
nothin 


o* 


"  Hopes  !  "  exclaimed  Cineas,  but  said  nothing  more. 

"  Hopes,  —  ay.  More,  —  belief,  conviction.  We  know 
in  whom  we  believe.  The  God  of  Abraham  will  never 
break  his  covenant.  He  afflicts  us  sorely,  but  he  will  yet 
save  us. 

"  Sorely,  sorely  does  he  afflict  us.  Sutferings  have  been 
ours  such  as  men  never  knew  before.  Alas !  Why  is  all 
lliis?  Why  is  our  anguish  so  great?  What  have  we  done 
against  thee,  O  thou  Most  High  ? 

"  But  yet  why  do  I  speak  ?  He  has  his  own  purposes. 
Perhaps  the  memory  of  this  anguish  may  hereafter  separate 
us  more  widely  from  the  heathen,  and  make  us  his  own  more 
palpably.  But  O  Thou  who  reignest  on  high  !  Is  not  this 
enough  ?  Why  demand  more  ?  How  long  must  we  suffer  ? 
How  long  shall  the  enemy  triumph  ?  How  long,  O  Lord, 
how  long  ?  " 

"  Titus  is  merciful.  He  feels  for  you,"  said  Cineas.  "  He 
endeavors  to  avert  your  doom.  But  what  can  he  do  if  you 
persist  ?  Can  you  not  return  to  that  old  obedience  to  Rome, 
which,  after  all,  gave  you  so  much  freedom  ?  Your  Temple 
would  still  be  yours." 

"  To  Rome !  No.  Never.  Now  has  come  the  time 
when  the  kingdoms  of  this  world  shall  be  given  to  the  Lord 
and  to  his  chosen  people.  By  the  magnitude  of  our  suffer- 
ings you  may  estimate  the  splendor  of  the  coming  triumph. 
Yes,  if  mere  suffering  is  necessary  we  can  suffer  more.  We 
have  not  yet  shed  all  our  tears.  We  can  shed  more.  We 
can  spare  more  blood  of  ours.  We  can  do  as  much  as  we 
have  done  for  the  sake  of  Him  who  shall  deliver  us. 

"  He  is  at  hand  !     The  day  is  close  by.     The  day  is  near 


^,iMm^^ 


The  Fall  of  'Jerusalem. 


403 


when  Titus  shall  wake  to  find  himself  confronted  by  a 
greater  than  he,  and  when  the  Jews  shall  rush  to  victory 
after  their  Heavenly  Deliverer." 

Cineas  said  no  more.  He  admired  that  faith,  so  mistaken, 
yet  so  strong,  which  thus  clung  to  the  object  of  its  belief  in 
the  midst  of  despair.  He  knew  best  how  false  were  the 
hopes  of  Isaac.  For  the  Deliverer  had  already  come,  as 
Cineas  knew,  and  had  performed  his  work.  The  prophecies 
of  Jesus  rang  in  his  ears,  and  he  knev  well  what  must  he 
the  end.  Yet  for  this  soul,  with  its  en  ,  its  hopes,  its  as- 
pirations, and  its  sublime  faith,  he  had  sympathy  and  tears. 

His  situation  was  desperate.  His  life  was  saved ;  but  for 
how  long  ?  He  was  in  a  city  where  people  were  dying  from 
famine  every  day,  where  men  fought  with  one  another  for 
food,  and  starvation  destroyed  far  more  than  the  Roman 
sword.  He  was  in  a  lonely  house,  but  if  he  were  once  diu- 
covered  he  would  perish.  Isaac  himself  knew  not  what  to 
do.  It  was  impossible  to  set  him  free.  The  walls  w(ire  now 
so  guarded  that  eseap-^  without  discovery  was  impossible. 

But  a  means  of  escape  roon  appeared.  The  Romans, 
though  repulsed,  prepared  to  regain  what  they  had  lost. 
A  new  attack  was  made.  The  breach  was  widened,  and 
vast  masses  of  men  poured  through  in  overpowering  num- 
bers. Slowly,  sternly,  and  in  perfect  order,  they  marched 
through  the  streets,  driving  the  Jews  before  them,  guarding 
against  surprise  by  sending  bodies  of  men  along  the  house- 
tops, and  slaying  all  who  were  in  the  houses.  Thus  they 
made  their  second  attack,  and  occupied  the  whole  district 
called  Akra,  till  at  last  the  Jews  were  driven  out,  and  took 
refuge  in  the  upper  city  of  all,  which  comprised  Zion,  and 
Mount  Moriah,  with  the  Temple,  and  the  Tower  of  Antonia. 

As  the  Romans  penetrated  every  part  of  the  city,  they 
passed  through  that  street  in  which  Cineas  was  confined. 
He  rushed  upon  the  house-top,  as  he  heard  their  cries.  He 
saw  the  flash  of  the  Roman  standards.     He  was  saved. 

But  though  the   Romans  had  thus  taken   Bezetha,  and 


404 


The  Fall  of  yrrnsalnn. 


Akra,  their  hanlost  (ask  yoX  n'maincd.  IMoiint  Zion  was 
almost  iinpregiiablc.  Tlio  T(Mn|>lo  was  a  fortress  of  tho 
strongest  kind ;  ami  the  to\v(!r  of  Aiitonia  was  strong  enough 
of  itself  to  resist  an  army,  even  if  all  the  rest  were  eaptureil. 
This  was  the  work  that  lay  before  Titus. 

Yet  before  he  carried  the  si(>ge  to  its  final  extremity,  Titus 
still  offered  mercy.  His  offers  were  rejected  with  scorn  by 
the  frenzied  people. 

Many,  indeed,  there  were  who  in  their  wretchedness  longed 
for  nothing  so  much  as  surrender.  They  saw  in  their  own 
lead(M\s  only  the  vilest  of  mankind.  They  saw  no  one  man 
of  j)rol)ity  and  true  patriotism,  around  whom  they  might 
rally.  What  were  John  and  Simon,  that  they  could  tni  I  in 
them?  The  emissaries  of  these  men  constantly  w(!nt  about 
plundering,  and  mui'dering,  and  adding  to  the  general  woe. 
A  jieople  who  were  led  by  such  as  these,  did  not  seem  the 
ones  to  whom  a  Deliverer  would  come.  They  lost  heart,  and 
courage.  Faith  died,  and  thousands  thought  that  God  had 
forsaken  Israel. 

Crowded  as  they  now  were  into  Zion,  the  Jews  began  to 
suffer  worse  extremities  of  hunger.  Food  could  only  be 
procured  by  stealth,  and  that  which  was  brought  in  was 
often  snatched  up  hurriedly  by  those  who  were  nearest. 
Many  tried  to  escape,  and  so  fled  at  all  hazards  to  the 
Romans.  Many  of  these  were  slain  by  the  Romans,  in  pun- 
ishment for  the  former  perfidy  of  their  countrymen,  yet 
numbers  were  saved.  But  John  and  Simon  in  their  civil 
tyranny  sent  round  bodies  of  men  to  prevent  escape.  These 
men  entered  house  after  house,  and  wherever  they  found 
any  one  who  expressed  desire  to  get  away,  or  even  discontent, 
they  put  him  to  death.  Every  house  was  at  the  mercy  of 
roving  bands.  Some  came  for  plunder,  but  most  for  food. 
Many  a  little  stock  of  provisions,  carefully  hoarded  up  by  a 
father  for  his  family,  was  seized  by  such  miscreants,  and  the 
family  left  to  die  by  the  worst  of  deaths. 

At  length  Titus  had  his  engines  ready  for  the  attack  on  the 


The  Fall  of  ycrusalcni. 


405 


Tower  of  Antonia.  This  wuh  a  fortress  of  \\\o<.i  nuus-sivo 
construction,  and  commandinj^  position.  Vast  machines  were 
erected  there,  and  ratns  of  enormous  size  wcmt  l)rouj^ht 
against  the  walls.  But  the  Jews  worked  with  e(iual  zeal. 
They  undermined  the  ground  beneatii  the  engines,  and  fdled 
it  with  combustibles  which  they  set  on  fire.  The  lire  burned 
away  the  stays  that  kept  up  the  mined  passages,  and  at  once 
the  vast  engines  fell  into  the  flames  beneath,  which  rusluMl 
up  amid  the  ruins,  and  enveloping  them  all,  reduced  to  ashes 
the  long  labor  of  the  Romans. 

Engines  seemed  useless,  and  something  else  had  to  be 
tried.  Titus  determined  to  surround  the  city  by  famine,  and 
starve  the  people  to  submission.  The  legions  were  posted 
in  detachments  all  around.  Every  man  worked,  and  with 
such  zeal  that  in  the  incredibly  short  space  of  three  days, 
Jerusalem  was  completely  enclosed  by  a  barrier  over  which 
none  might  pass. 

Then,  indeed,  famine  seemed  inevitable.  Hitherto,  by 
infinite  hazard,  provisions  had  been  brought  from  a  distance, 
and  men  could  cross  in  the  dark ;  but  now  that  guarded  Ro- 
man wall  prevented  all  communication  with  the  outer  world. 

After  the  wall  was  finished,  Titus  went  around  its  whole 
extent  accompanied  by  many  of  his  otficers,  among  whom 
were  Cineas  and  Labeo.  As  they  came  to  where  the  d(;e[) 
Vale  of  Hinnom  lay  beneath  them,  they  saw  a  scene  which 
spoke  more  loudly  than  words  of  the  horrors  of  the  siege. 
Unburied  bodies  lay  there  by  thousands,  covering  the  bottom 
of  the  valley,  and  the  hill-side,  where  they  had  been  care- 
lessly thrown  by  tliose  who  bore  them  out  of  the  city.  The 
taint  of  their  corruption  filled  the  air.  Titus  shuddered,  and 
called  God  to  witness  that  he  was  not  responsible  for  this. 

Within  the  city  famine  now  came  down  upon  all.  Whole 
families  perished. 

Cineas  could  see  the  signs  of  that  great  agony  as  he  looked 
down  into  the  Vale  of  Hinnom ;  but  within  the  city  Isaac 
saw  and  felt  the  agony  itself. 

Day  after  day  some  tale  of  horror  came  to  his  ears ;  tales 


4o6 


The  Fall  of  ycrusaletn. 


ini  I'edible,  monstrous,  abominable  ;  tales  which  he  refused  to 
believe,  till  one  case  occurred  which  made  him  willing  to 
believe  anything,  and  first  sent  the  thought  into  his  mind 
that  God  had  turned  away  his  face  from  Israel  forever. 

A  woman,  in  the  madness  of  her  hunger,  killed  her  own 
child,  to  feed  on  its  fiesh.  The  famine-stricken  wretches 
who  came  to  her  house  in  search  of  food  discovered  this 
hideous  repast,  and  left  shuddering.  The  city  rang  with  the 
frightful  story. 

Isaac  heard  it,  and  found  out  that  it  was  true 

"  O  God  of  Abraham  !  "  he  murmured  with  bitterness  in 
his  heart,  "  if  thou  canst  allo»v  ::his,  then  what  is  there  that 
thou  wilt  rot  allow  to  be  done  ?  " 

The  faith  of  Isaac  faltered  then.  He  looked  toward  the 
Temple  whose  golden  walls  flashed  in  the  sun  as  brightly  as 
ever. 

"  Dwelling-place  of  the  Most  High!"  he  murmured ;  "Holy 
Place  of  Israel !  Since  this  thing  has  been  done  there  is  no 
ho[)e  for  thee.  O  glory  of  Israel !  I  will  not  survive  thee. 
I  will  die  amid  thy  ruins." 

Isaac  fought,  but  it  was  no  'onger  the  fight  of  hope.  It 
was  the  fight  of  despair,  in  which  one  who  knows  that  all  is 
lost,  and  that  he  must  die,  seeks  to  sell  his  life  as  dearly  as 
possible. 

The  liomans  found  their  engines  of  no  avail  against  the 
Tower  of  Antouia,  and  so  tried  other  measures.  A  small 
band  of  daring  men,  out  of  their  own  impulse,  set  forth  one 
dark  night,  and  stealthily  scaled  the  walls,  and  entered  the 
tower.  The  Jewish  guards  were  asleep.  They  were  slain. 
The  Roman  trumpet-peal  announced  both  to  fri'ind  and  foe 
that  the  castle  .vas  taken.  The  Romans  rushed  forward  by 
thousands.  'j.'he  Jews  were  confounded,  and  panic-stricken. 
The  tower  was  lost. 

Beside  the  tower  was  the  temple,  and  a  passage  lay  from 
one  to  the  other.  Over  this  the  Romans  rushed  in  the  first 
flush  of  success,  hoping  to  capture  this  at  the  first  onset. 
But  the  Jews  were  aroused  by  tliis  time,  and  rushed  in  from 


The  Fall  of  ycrusalcin. 


407 


all  sides  to  defend  the  Holy  Place.  Long  and  fierce  was  the 
conflict.     At  last  the  Romans  were  forced  back. 

Yet  they  had  the  Tower  of  Antonia,  and  this  was  a  gx*oat 
step  towards  complete  victory. 

And  now  Titus  seeing  the  vast  strength  of  the  Temple,  and 
the  difficulty  of  getting  at  it  with  his  machines,  gave  orders 
for  the  demolition  of  the  tower,  that  a  broad  way  might  be 
made  up  to  the  Temple  walls,  where  his  engines  might  be 
fixed,  and  over  which  his  soldiers  miglit  march  in  sufficient 
numbers  to  overpower  the  Jews.  The  work  was  gigantic, 
but  the  labor  of  Roman  armies  was  always  of  the  most  ardu- 
ous character.  They  worked  with  their  usual  diligence, 
and  soon  a  way  was  made  up  to  the  temple  walls,  fit  for 
their  operations. 

Yet  before  the  final  assault  Titus  paused.  All  through 
the  siege  he  had  been  animated  by  emotions  of  pity  and 
mercy.  lie  wished  once  more  to  give  a  chance  of  escape  to 
those  wretched  and  doomed  suffi'rers.  He  wished  also  to 
preserve  that  glorious  Temple,  which  gh^anicd  so  radiantly 
before  his  eyes,  —  the  wonder  of  the  world,  —  the  Holy 
Place  of  Israel. 

Once  more  he  offered  terms,  but  the  terms  were  rejected. 

On  that  day  a  gi-eat  horror  fell  upon  the  Jews. 

It  was  announced  that  the  Daily  Sacrifice  had  failed. 
There  were  no  more  victims. 

The  Daily  Sacrifice,  offered  through  the  ages,  the  tie  tliat 
bound  Israel  to  her  God,  was  over  forever. 

Isaac  heard  the  news,  but  scarce  felt  surprise.  He  had 
prepared  for  the  worst.  A  deeper  gloom  came  over  him. 
He  heard  many,  who  still  clung  to  the  fond  belief  of  ages, 
declaring  that  now,  since  the  sacrifice  had  ceased,  the  Deliv- 
erer must  come.     He  heard  this,  but  only  smiled  bitterly. 

"The  Deliverer,"  he  murmured.  "Ay, —  yes,  the  De- 
liverer is  near ;  but  the  only  one  for  us  all  now  is  Death." 

The  rams  thundered  against  the  T«!mj»le  walls  day  after 
day ;  but  against  those  tremendous  stones,  built  in  a  form«^ 


4o8 


The  Fall  of  ycrusalein. 


age,  and  looking  like  the  work  of  giants,  nothing  could  be 
done.  The  rams  could  not  shake  the  stones  of  the  old  Jew- 
ish kings. 

Then  they  tried  other  means,  and  kindled  large  fires 
against  the  gates.  The  fire  spread.  The  gates,  massive  as 
they  were,  yielded  to  the  intense  heat.  They  chaxred,  and 
crumbled,  and  at  last  fell  in. 

Scarce  could  the  Romans  wait  for  the  fires  to  subside,  in 
their  fierce  impatience  to  rush  forward.  They  burst  through, 
but  they  found  the  Jews  there,  standing  firmly,  as  resolute 
as  ever,  endowed  with  new  courage,  since  they  fought  on 
that  holy  ground.  The  fires  spread  amid  the  cloisters,  and 
devoured  the  wood-work.  But  amid  the  fires  the  Jews  still 
held  their  ground,  and  at  last  the  Romans  were  compelled  to 
fall  back. 

But  the  attack  was  renewed  on  another  day.  The  Ro- 
mans poured  forward  in  ever-increasing  numbers.  The 
Jews  at  last  were  overmastered.  They  retreated  to  the 
inner  court. 

Then  cume  the  last  day  of  the  fight. 

On  that  diiy  all  was  to  be  decided.  Titus  had  given  strict 
orders  that  the  Holy  House  itself  should  not  be  harmed,  and 
that  the  fianies  which  they  might  use  in  their  attacks  should 
be  kept  away  from  that  one  place. 

Tiie  morning  of  that  day  caine.  It  was  the  tenth  day  of 
the  month  Ab,  the  anniversary  of  the  day  on  which  the  Tem- 
ple was  formerly  burned  by  the  king  of  Babylon. 

On  that  morning  there  appeared  to  the  excited  senses  of 
the  Jews  that  which  showed  them  that  all  was  lost. 

It  was  early  dawn,  before  the  sun  arose,  while  yet  the 
scene  around  was  dim  in  the  morning  twilight. 

Suddenly  there  arose  a  sound  like  the  rush  of  a  vast  mul- 
titude, mingled  with  the  sound  of  innumerable  voices,  low, 
solemn,  with  infinite  melancholy  and  mournfulness  in  their 
tones,  — 

"  LfJT    us    LEAVE   THIS    PLACE  !  " 


The  Fall  of  Jerusalem. 


409 


These  were  the  words  that  were  heard  by  the  Jews,  as, 
haggard  and  emaciated  and  despairing,  they  looked  and  lis- 
tened, — 

"Let  us  leave  this  place!" 

And  the  rush  of  this  multitude  grew  mightier,  and  all  the 
air,  and  all  the  holy  hill  seemed  filled  with  their  presence. 

At  last  they  became  manifest  to  sight  as  wSll  as  hearing. 

On  a  sudden,  in  the  dim  twilight,  there  appeared  innume- 
rr^ble  phantom  forms,  filling  the  sky,  moving  on  in  long  pro- 
cession, with  heads  bowed  like  mourners,  and  faces  hidden 
in  robes,  and  still  the  cry  wailed  forth  from  all. 

Then  in  shadowy  outline  were  revealed  the  sacred  sym- 
bols of  those  things  which  were  used  in  the  temple  ser- 
vice, —  the  table  of  shew-bread,  the  golden  candlestick,  and, 
more  than  all,  that  Holy  Ark,  which  once  stood  in  the  ancient 
Temple,  over  whose  mercy-seat  was  the  shadow  of  the  Most 
High.  All  these  were  revealed.  And  the  senses  of  the 
Jews,  disordered  by  long  vigil  and  fasting,  descried  them  as 
they  seemed  to  move  through  the  air. 

At  last  all  faded  away,  and  the  sun  rose  and  illuminated 
the  faces  of  horror  that  stood  gazing  at  the  place  where  the 
vision  had  vanished. 

A  cry  of  despair  escaped  from  all.  They  knew  that  their 
hour  had  come. 

The  Romans  rushed  to  the  attack.  All  the  available 
strength  of  the  army  was  brought  forward,  to  make  this  as- 
sault final  and  irresistible.  Vast  masses  of  men  moved  up 
the  slope  and  poured  into  the  openings  which  the  flames  had 
made. 

The  Jews  knew  that  all  was  lost,  but  they  fought  as  they 
had  never  fought  before.  Each  man  wished  to  die,  but  had 
determined  to  make  a  Roman  life  pay  for  his  own. 

Backward  and  still  backward  they  were  borne,  but  still 
they  fought  on.     At  last  the  advancing  Romans  stood  before 
the  Hoiy  House.     Around  it  the  fight  raged.     The  Jews 
wished  most  of  all  to  die  beside  it. 
35 


4IO 


The  Fall  of  ycrusalem. 


Cineas  and  Labeo  were  there,  in  the  midst  of  this  conflict, 
and  marked  the  desjiair  of  the  Jews,  and  all  their  devotion. 
Suddenly  a  Roman  soldier  seized  a  brand  and  rushed  to  the 
Temple.  He  held  it  up  against  one  of  the  windows.  The 
flames  caught.  They  darted  along  the  woodwork,  and  the 
rich  hangings,  with  inconceivable  rapidity.  The  light  of  the 
conflagration  arrested  all. 

A  groan  of  horror  burst  from  the  Jews.  With  one  com- 
mon impulse  they  rushed  to  the  Holy  House. 

'xhe  Romans  themselves  paused  for  a  moment. 

The  flames  shot  up,  enveloping  all,  till  all  one  side  was 
covered.  The  Jews  lifted  up  their  hands  in  despair.  They 
rushed  in  and  out,  some  calling  wildly  on  others  to  ^ave  the 
place. 

At  last  a  sight  appeared  which  arrested  the  attention  of 
all. 

Upon  the  roof  stood  a  man,  holding  a  sword  in  his  hand, 
stained  with  the  blood  of  the  battle,  and  the  smoke  of  the 
burning  house.  He  stood  for  a  moment  motionless,  standing 
on  one  side  where  the  fire  had  not  yet  reached,  and  looking 
upon  the  flames  that  tossed  themselves  up  to  the  skies  from 
the  other. 

Cineas,  as  he  looked  up  from  the  crowd  below,  recognized 
that  face.     It  was  Isaac. 

For  a  few  moments  Isaac  stood  motionless.  Then  he 
walked  forward  and  threw  his  sword  into  the  flames. 

Then  he  raised  his  clenched  fist  to  the  skies,  and  looking 
ap,  cried  out,  in  a  loud  and  piercing  voice,  — 

"  O  God  of  Abraham !  How  hast  thou  mocked  the  peo- 
ple who  trusted  in  thee  !  " 

The  next  instant  he  rushed  forward,  and  sprang  into  the 
raging  flames. 


...jyik.. 


CONCLUSION. 

LL  was  over ! 

Roman  perseverance  had  triumphed  over  Jewish 
fanaticism.  The  Holy  House  lay  in  ashes.  The  Ro- 
man triumphed  upon  the  ruins  of  Zion.  The  Jew- 
ish nation  lost  its  ancient  seat,  and  began  the  long 
exile  of  ages. 

The  Roman  army  occupied  themselves  with  com- 
pleting their  work,  with  gathering  the  wretched  remnants  of 
a  people,  and  sending  them  into  captivity.  The  Jews  who 
remained  in  the  country  were  forced  to  seek  out  hiding- 
places  ;  to  cower  in  the  recesses  of  the  mountains  ;  and  wait 
till  this  calamity  might  be  overpast. 
Month  succeeded  to  month. 

Gradually  a  change  took  place.  The  forlorn  and  mis- 
erable people  began  to  venture  back  to  their  loved  Jerusa- 
lem, and  rebuild  their  fallen  houses. 

Among  those  who  thus  returned  were  the  Christians,  to 
whom  Jerusalem  was  as  dear  as  to  the  Jews.  They  had 
fled,  at  the  first  approach  of  the  storm,  for  they  knew  what 
the  end  would  be.  Now  that  the  end  had  come,  they  sought 
once  more  the  place  which  had  been  so  hallowed  in  their 
eyes  by  the  presence  of  their  Lord. 

Labeo  and  Cineas  looked  upon  Jerusalem  with  feelings 
that  no  other  place  could  excite. 

Here  once  dwelt  that  wondrous  Being  whom  they  had 
learned  to  regard  as  their  hope,  their  comfort,  and  the  end 
of  all  their  search.  • 

(411) 


-VWT" 


412  Conclusion. 

Here  lay  the  traces  of  bis  footsteps ;  the  shadow  of  his 
presence  seemed  to  remain  ;  and  the  sound  of  his  words 
seemed  still  to  linger  in  the  air. 

All  around  was  desolation.  The  few  people  that  tried  to 
make  their  home  here  only  increased  the  mournful  aspect  of 
the  place.  The  walls  lay  prostrate.  The  houses  were  in 
heaps.  Tlie  bodies  of  the  dead  had  been  buried;  but  when- 
ever Cineas  looked  down  into  the  deep  vallies  around  Jeru- 
salem, he  thought  of  that  scene  which  he  had  once  beheld 
when  thousands  of  corpses  lay  there. 

As  they  looked  around  upon  all  this  they  recalled  the 
words  of  Christ,  uttered  by  him  as  he  wept  over  Jerusalem, 

Jerusalem !  well  did  it  need  tears ;  even  the  tears  of  tho? 
Divine  One !  "* 

So  the  Christians  came  back  to  live  once  more  in  tha 
presence  of  their  old  haunts,  and  seek  once  more  those  places 
so  dear  in  their  eyes.  Among  these  Cineas  and  Labeo  found 
many  who  could  give  to  each  spot  its  own  charm,  and  make 
the  life  of  the  Divine  One  come  back  again  before  them  with 
all  its  unutterable  pathos.  \ 

Here  tliey  saw  the  Mount  of  Olives;  here  they  saw 
Gethsemane ;  and  here,  above  all,  they  saw  the  hill,  —  Cal- 
vary. 

A  short  distance  from  the  city  they  could  see  the  ruins  of 
Bethany,  which  had  perished  in  the  siege.  All  the  houses 
here  had  been  laid  low,  but  the  Christians  showed  the  two 
friends  the  site  of  that  house  to  which  Christ  had  once  loved 
to  resort ;  they  showed  them  the  tomb  on  the  hill-side  where 
he  had  once  summoned  the  dead  back  from  death,  and  the 
dead  obeyed.  In  that  tomb  the  body  of  Lazarus  now  lay. 
He  had  died  before  the  outbreak  of  the  war,  and  had  entered 
forever  that  bright  world  of  which  he  once  before  had  caught 
a  glimpse.  He  had  heard  once  more  the  voice  of  his  Lord 
calling  him  from  the  tomb,  not  to  earth,  but  to  heaven. 

All  these  things  and  many  more  the  friends  saw,  as  they 
wandered  humbly,  reverentially,  and  with  chastened  hearts, 
amid  these  scenes,  listening  to  the  traditions  of  the  meek 


Conclusion. 


413 


where 

land  the 

ow  lay. 

lentered 

caught 

Is  Lord 

|as  tliey 
hearts, 
meek 


Christian  men,  who  so  lovingly  traced  the  footsteps  of  (heir 
Lord  about  tlie  city  wiiich  he  loved,  and  in  which  he  had 
died.  In  the  ruins  of  tliat  city  they  could  see  something 
which  spoke  of  his  divinity ;  in  the  awful  catastrophe  which 
had  occurred  before  their  eyes,  they  beheld  the  close  of 
that  ancient  revelation  which  was  to  be  succeeded  by  the 
new  one.  The  Deliverer  whom  the  Jews  expected  had 
indeed  come.  He  had  fulfilled  his  work.  He  had  departed. 
But  the  Jews  knew  not  this.  They  had  blinded  their  eyes, 
and  hardened  their  hearts,  and  in  their  obstinate  pei'sistency 
in  the  expectation  of  material  glory  for  their  nation,  they 
had  flung  themselves  into  an  abyss  of  woe. 

To  these  two,  as  the  time  passed  by,  it  seemed  at  length, 
that  of  all  objects  which  could  engage  their  minds,  only  this 
one  thing  was  worthy  of  their  search,  and  that  was  to  find 
Him  for  whom  they  longed  now  with  constant  desire,  to  know 
him,  to  love  him,  to  give  to  him  all  their  affections,  and  all 
their  lives. 

At  length  the  Roman  armies  were  ordered  to  stations 
elsewhere,  and  Cineas  and  Labeo,  who  thus  far  had  been 
forced  to  remain,  now  found  themselves  at  liberty  to  return 
and  follow  their  own  desires.  And  for  that  they  desired 
nothing  more  than  to  know  Jesus  Christ  and  him  crucified. 

At  Pergamos  they  found  a  teacher  who  could  tell  them 
all  that  they  desired  to  know. 

At  his  feet  they  sat,  content  to  listen  to  him,  and  re- 
ceive from  him  the  story  of  that  divine  word  of  whom 
Cineas  had  once  read  in  the  books  of  the  philosophers,  wlien 
the  name  was  used  to  express  the  wants  of  man.  Now  they 
learned  that  the  word  had  become  flesh,  and  man  had  seen 
his  glory,  the  glory  of  the  only  begotten  of  the  Father,  full 
of  grace  and  truth. 

From  this  teacher  they  heard  a  greater  doctrine,  and  a 
diviner  teaching  than  any  which  had  ever  been  heard  at 
Athens. 

And  all  was  summed  up  in  the  one  sublime  truth,  "  God 

loves ! " 

35* 


.^•H      "I      •Wlf) 


414  Conclusion. 

God  loves  I  This  was  the  end  of  all  revelation.  The 
all  mighty  is  also  the  all  loving.  O  divine  and  infinite  truth ! 
to  give  this  to  man  needed  God  himself. 

Pergamos  seemed  like  a  holy  place,  as  they  listened  there 
to  the  story  of  Christ,  —  Christ  in  his  acts,  in  his  words,  in 
his  prayers ;  Christ  in  his  power  and  his  mercy ;  Christ 
in  his  wisdom  and  his  knowledge;  above  all,  Christ  in  his 
love. 

And  they  learned  that  Christ,  when  he  departed,  left  not 
his  people  comfortless. 

He  had  gone,  but  there  remained  and  should  remain, 
through  all  the  ages,  till  the  end,  One  who  is  the  essence  of 
divine  love  and  pity ;  One  who  in  himself  comprehends  all 
the  depths  of  infinita««ompassion ;  whose  mission  is  to  bring 
man  to  God ;  to  open  the  way  to  pardon  and  to  heaven  ;  to 
speak  peace  to  the  mourner,  and  make  hope  cast  out  despair : 
the  Holy  Spirit,  the  Comforter. 

There  to  these  men  all  desire  seemed  to  centre.  Content 
to  dwell  here,  they  could  gladly  have  forgotten  all  else,  and 
passed  their  lives  in  holy  meditation. 

But  this  was  not  for  them. 

Other  things  than  quiet  meditation  were  needed.  Their 
duty  was  different. 

That  duty  was  above  all  to  follow  Christ,  and  as  he  sought, 
most  of  all,  to  call  man  to  God  and  holiness,  even  so  ought 
all  his  disciples,  each  in  his  own  way. 

And  so  it  was  that  Cineas  and  Labeo  were  impelled  to 
carry  to  other  men  the  Truth  which  they  had  learned. 

Cineas  went  to  Athens,  and  there,  in  the  midst  of  students 
and  teachers  cf  philosophy,  he  passed  his  life  in  making 
known  subluner  doctrines  than  those  of  Plato.  He,  out  of 
his  own  experience,  could  best  show  where  philosophy  failed; 
and  where  Plato  faltered,  he  could  show  that  Christ  was  all- 
sufficient. 

This  became  the  work  of  his  life,  there,  in  the  centre  of 
thought,  the  intellectual  capital  of  the  ancient  world,  to  stand 
forth  among  men  and  proclaim  Christ  crucified.    He  thought, 


Conclusion. 


415 


and  riglitly  too,  that  all  his  past  life,  his  varied  feelings,  hi8 
wide  experience  in  other  forms  of  doctrine,  both  philosophi- 
cal and  Jewish,  his  extensive  observation  of  the  world,  all 
pointed  to  Athens  as  the  })roper  place  for  him. 

His  labors  were  not  in  vain.  He  went  abroad  among  all 
classes,  talking,  preaching,  discussing,  exhorting,  till  the 
Athenians  gave  him  the  nickname  of  "The  New  Socrates;" 
but  Cineas  had  a  model  very  different  from  Socrates,  and 
sought  to  mould  all  his  life  after  the  pattern  of  Jesus. 

He  met  with  much  opposition  and  much  ridicule.  Many 
were  the  sneers  which  he  encountered,  and  for  years  men 
did  not  cease  to  wonder  how  a  Megacleid,  and  a  man  of 
genius,  who  was  familiar  with  all  Greek  art  and  literature 
and  philosophy,  could  ever  have  brought  his  mind  to  a  be- 
lief in  a  crucified  Barbarian. 

Yet  all  were  not  scoffers.  Many  there  were  who  had  the 
same  feelings  which  he  once  had.  Among  these  his  mission 
was  successful,  and  he  had  the  joy  of  seeing  many  hearts  re- 
ceive the  consolation  which  Christ  alone  can  bring. 

Labeo  had  a  different  sphere.  He  was  not  adapted  either 
by  nature  or  by  training  to  a  career  among  sneering  sophists, 
and  argumentative  philosophers.  He  wished  to  tell  the  sim- 
ple story  of  the  cross  to  simple  men. 

For  what  else  had  he  in  life  than  this  ?  The  memory  of 
one  great  sorrow  was  over  him,  and  nothing  that  the  world 
could  offer  had  any  charm.  He  had  found  peace,  and  his 
only  desire  was  to  give  up  his  life  to  the  proclamation  of  the 
gospel  of  peace. 

But  before  he  set  out  to  that  place  which  he  had  chosen 
as  the  one  where  he  would  pass  the  remainder  of  his  life,  he 
paid  a  final  visit  to  Rome. 

A  letter  had  come  from  Julius,  informing  him  that  his 
venerable  mother  was  now  at  the  point  of  death. 

In  her  life  with  Lydia,  and  in  her  association  with  her,  the 
aged  Sulpicia  could  not  but  see  much  of  Christianity.  In- 
sensibly she  felt  her  heart  touched  by  its  simple  doctrines. 
Her  loneliness  afflicted  her,  for  the  sweet  grandchild  whom 


4l6  Conclusion. 

she  loved  was  dead,  hor  idolized  son  was  far  away,  engai^pd 
in  taking  an  active  part  in  a  dangerous  war,  and  the  sadness 
which  she  felt  made  her  readily  susceptible  to  the  influence 
of  that  religion  which,  above  all  things,  brings  consolation. 
In  her  own  religion  she  found  absolutely  no  comfort  what- 
ever. The  fabled  gods  of  the  national  religion,  for  which 
she  had  a  sort  of  formal  acknowledgment,  were  worse  than 
useless  to  one  like  her.  They  not  only  could  not  attract  the 
mourner,  but  repelled.  In  that  creed,  if  creed  it  may  be 
called,  the  future  was  altogether  dark,  and  as  she  felt  herself 
approaching  the  confines  of  the  other  world,  she  saw  nothing 
but  gloom. 

But  this  religion  of  Christ,  which  Lydia  possessed  and 
loved,  came  to  her  in  that  time  of  darkness,  and  as  she  looked 
forward  she  saw  that  it  illumined  all  the  future.  It  prom- 
ised hope  and  heaven  and  immortality.  It  was  one  which 
the  softened  heart  might  be  loth  to  reject,  and  eager  to  em- 
brace. From  the  mouth  of  Lydia,  who  through  all  her  life 
had  been  receiving  the  teachings  of  her  father,  the  story  of 
Christ  became  acceptable  to  Sulpicia,  until  at  last  she,  too, 
believed. 

But  her  great  age  did  not  permit  a  long  stay  on  earth ; 
and  the  letter  which  Labeo  received  summoned  him  to  her 
side. 

All  the  filial  feeling  which  he  had  ever  known,  revived 
as  he  stood  by  the  bedside  of  his  mother;  but  the  grief 
which  he  felt  was  alleviated  as  he  heard  the  words  of  love 
and  trust  in  her  Redeemer,  which  Sulpicia  murmured  with 
her  latest  breath. 

The  sweet  influences  which  Lydia  had  exerted  over  Sul- 
picia were  also  felt  by  Carbo.  The  old  man  had  lost  much  of 
his  former  harshness.  He  had  long  since  learned  to  look 
on  Christianity  at  least  with  respect ;  he  at  length  learned  to 
regard  it  with  love.  It  became  his  delight,  and  the  object 
of  his  life  to  accompany  his  son  in  his  labors  for  the  benefit 
of  the  Christian  community. 

The  death  of  his  mother  loosened  the  last  tie  which  bound 


Coticlusian, 


417 


Liiboo  to  Rome.  He  saw  that  Julius  was  cminont  amonj; 
the  Christians  for  acts  of  general  service,  and  determined  to 
make  this  benefit  permanent.  lie  tlierefon;  gave  to  Julius 
his  villa  and  estates,  and  when  Julius  refused  to  take  them 
he  insisted  on  it,  telling  him  that  it  was  not  to  him  that  he 
gave  it,  but  to  Christ.  Then  Julius  could  no  longer  refuse. 
That  estate  became  his,  but  all  that  it  yielded  was  at  the 
service  of  the  Christiana,  to  supply  their  wants,  or  to  help 
along  their  enterprises. 

All  Labeo's  heart  was  fixed  on  one  place,  and  that  was, 
—  Britain. 

There  lay  his  wife,  and  there  his  boy,  still  loved  with  un- 
diminished fondness, —  still  .  )nged  for.  In  the  land  where 
those  loved  remains  were  deposited  he  determined  to  pass 
his  days.        . 

When  he  came  to  the  well-known  place,  and  stood  once 
more  in  front  of  the  tomb,  and  read,  through  his  tears,  the 
epitaphs  over  those  idols  of  his  heart,  a  terrible  shock  came 
to  him.  His  feelings  overmastered  him.  He  fell  on  his 
knees  and  groaned,  in  his  agony.  Despair  seemed  once 
more  to  take  possession  of  him.  He  had  miscalculated  his 
strength.  He  knew  not  how  a  return  to  the  scene  of  an  old 
sorrow  can  bring  back  that  sorrow  in  all  its  freshness. 

But  as  he  knelt  there,  with  clenched  hands,  bloodshot  eyes, 
and  heaving  breast,  with  all  his  thouj  hts  filled  with  that 
agony  of  former  years,  other  things  gradually  came  to  his 
mind,  to  soothe  and  to  console.  Amid  the  visions  of  the 
past  new  ones  came.  His  wife  and  child,  in  his  excited 
fancy,  stood  beside  him,  but  between  the  two  he  saw  the 
form  of  a  Third,  a  form  on  which  were  the  marks  of  cruel 
scars,  but  with  a  face  of  infinite  love,  that  looked  towards 
him,  and  by  its  look  spake  —  peace. 

And  again  that  voice  of  his  son  sounded,  as  it  had  sounded 
so  often  before,  a  sweet  childish  voice,  with  tones  of  love  un- 
utterable, that  said,  — 

"  Father,  we  will  meet  again !  " 

Then  a  great  joy  came  to  Labeo,  and  all  his  despair  van- 


4i8  Conclusion. 

ishcd,  and  there,  even  in  the  presence  of  the  tomb  of  his  son, 
he  felt  within  him  perfect  peace. 

Throughout  Britain  his  face  and  form  and  voice  became 
well  known,  among  Romans,  among  friendly  tribes,  and 
among  hostile  ones.  Much  he  suffered.  Often  he  was 
sorely  wounded,  sometimes  death  seemed  inevitable ;  yet 
still  he  pursued  his  course,  and  tried  to  tell  all,  both  Roman 
and  Barbarian  the  story  of  love.     So  the  years  passed. 

In  that  land  of  Britain  there  was  another  of  whom  Labeo 
often  thought,  and  whom  he  longed  to  meet  with. 

This  was  Galdus. 

The  Briton,  after  leaving  Labeo,  had  left  all  the  Roman 
world  behind.  He  turned  his  head  upon  all  this,  and  went 
northward  toward  those  tribes  that  were  yet  free.  He 
passed  through  tribe  after  tribe,  and  finding  many  of  them 
under  Roman  influence,  he  still  pursued  his  way. 

At  last  he  came  among  the  tribes  of  Caledonia. 

Grief  drove  him  to  seek  comfort  in  action.  From  the 
quiet  life  of  years  in  civilization  and  amid  refinement,  he  now 
felt  a  reaction.  At  the  stimulus  of  grief,  all  his  barbaric 
nature  was  aroused,  and  the  thought  of  war  came  to  liim  as 
it  had  come  to  Cineas  and  Labeo.  His  valor,  his  strength 
and  courage,  his  skill  in  fighting,  which  had  been  doubly 
formed,  first  by  a  long  use  of  native  weapons,  and  secondly 
by  his  training  as  a  gladiator,  all  these  made  him  conspicu- 
ous as  a  warrior,  and  the  tribe  among  whom  he  cast  his  lot 
chose  him  as  their  chief.  His  mind,  naturally  acute,  had 
been  enlarged  and  strengthened  by  civilized  life  and  asso- 
ciation with  men  of  intelligence.  He  had  also  seen  the 
world.  Sorrow  had  made  him  grave  and  calm.  He  was  fit 
to  rule.  His  influence  was  felt  far  and  near.  In  disputes 
between  tribes  his  decision  was  called  for,  until  at  length 
many  of  them  chose  him  voluntarily  for  their  leader. 

A  great  idea  took  possession  of  his  mind,  and  that  was  a 
combination  of  all  the  tribes,  to  resist  Roman  conquest,  and 
drive  Roman  armies  out  of  Britain.  It  animated  his  life. 
He  went  out  among  the  people,  firing  their  hearts,  remind- 


Conclusion. 


419 


ing  them  of  the  wrongs  of  Boatlicea,  enumerating  the  cninos 
of  the  Romans,  and  exhorting  all  to  union.  Ilis  words  sank 
deeply  into  the  hearts  of  the  natives,  and  all  became  ani- 
mated with  his  own  spirit.  He  became  the  ;  .cognized  leader 
of  all.  The  natives  called  him  "  Gald  cachach"  "  Gald,  the 
fighter  of  battles."  The  Romans  heard  of  his  tume,  and,  in 
tiieir  own  language,  called  him  Galgacus. 

This  name  was  bestowed  on  account  of  the  success  of  his 
earliest  efforts  against  the  Romans.  For  now  an  attempt 
was  being  made  to  complete  the  conquest  of  Britain,  and 
Agricola  was  then  cautiously  leading  his  legions  against  an 
enemy  with  whose  tactics  he  was  well  acquainted.  He 
found  out  that  Galdus  was  making  a  confederacy,  and  re- 
solved himself  to  strike  the  first  blow.  He  sent  a  fleet  to 
explore  those  inland  waters  which  were  called  Clota  and 
Bodotria.  The  Caledonians  seeing  the  fleet,  took  alarm,  and 
at  once  began  war. 

Under  the  lead  of  Galdus  many  advantages  were  obtained. 
Once  in  a  night-attack  they  met  with  such  success,  that  the 
Roman  army  was  only  saved  with  extreme  difficulty. 

At  last  the  two  armies  met  near  the  Grampian  hills,  and 
there  the  decisive  battle  was  fought.  Galdus  harangued  his 
men  with  all  that  fiery  eloquence  which  so  distinguished  him 
in  a  speech  which  is  preserved  in  the  pages  of  Tacitus,  and 
stands  there  as  the  most  noble  vindication  of  freedom  and 
patriotism  that  the  records  of  man  have  preserved. 

The  great  fight  was  fought ;  and  the  world  knows  the 
result.  Patriotism,  valor,  fury,  despair,  all  proved  of  no 
avail  against  discipline  and  strategic  skill.  The  array  of  the 
Caledonian  confederacy  was  destroyed-  The  tribes  retired 
sullenly,  still  farther  to  the  north,  to  wait  there  for  a  later 
age  when  they  might  once  more  assail  the  Romans. 

Galgacus  vanished  from  the  scene.  Gald,  the  fighter  of 
battles,  roused  the  tribes  no  more. 

He  saw  the  ruin  of  his  hopes,  and  the  destruction  of  his 
plans.  The  desires  that  had  animated  him  died  out.  What 
remained  ? 


^ll|IMltllM««l  '("  "I 


^ 


420  Conclusion. 

Grief  that  arose  oni  of  that  strong  affection  of  his,  wliich 
through  the  years  had  still  carried  the  memory  of  that  sweet 
boy  whom  he  once  regarded  as  a  god,  whose  words  wore 
well  remembered,  whose  form  revisited  his  dreams.  Still, 
amid  excitement  and  battle,  that  face  appeared,  full  of  ten- 
der, childish  pity,  as  it  had  once  appeared  in  the  cruel  am- 
phitheatre, when  it  came  before  his  fainting  senses,  and 
tender  hands  were  felt,  and  words  of  love  were  heard. 

All  this  remained  fixed  in  his  memory. 

Vengeance,  war,  ambition,  all  were  gone  ;  love  remained ; 
such  love  as  belongs  to  a  strong,  proud,  fierce  nature  ;  love 
mighty,  undying.  Had  he  not  nursed  that  love  for  years,  as 
he  carried  that  boy  in  his  arms,  and  forgot  his  country  and 
his  kin  in  his  love  for  him  ? 

It  was  about  a  year  after  the  Grampian  tight,  when  Labco, 
who  had  gone  farther  north  than  ever  before,  retui'ned  as 
was  his  custom,  to  fast  and  pray  at  the  grave  of  his  son. 
As  he  came  there  he  saw  the  figure  of  a  man  on  the  stone 
pavement  before  the  tomb.  The  man  was  motionless.  La- 
beo  looked  on  long  in  silence,  wondering. 

At  last  he  went  up  and  touched  the  man  who  lay  there. 
The  other  turned  his  head  half  round,  and  looked  up  fiercely 
and  wildly. 

The  face  that  was  revealed  by  the  light  of  the  moon  that 
was  then  shining  was  pallid  and  haggard  in  the  extreme. 
A  shaggy  beard  and  mustache  covered  the  lower  part,  and 
matted  hair  fell  over  the  brow.  Yet  in  spite  of  all  this, 
Labco  knew  it  at  once.  He  knew  it  by  the  sorrow  that  it 
bore.  Who  else  could  mourn  at  the  grave  of  his  son,  except 
one  ? 

Labeo  flung  himself  on  his  knees  beside  him  and  embraced 
him. 

''  Galdus ! "  he  cried.  "  Friend,  brother,  savior  of  him 
whom  we  both  once  loved,  heaven  has  brought  us  together. 
We  must  part  no  more." 

At  these  words,  spoKen  with  a  trembling  voice,  and  with 


Conclusion. 


421 


deep  emotion,  the  Briton  rose  and  looked  at  Labeo  with  a 
bewildered  stare. 

"  Do  you  not  know  the  father  of  Marcus  ?  "  said  Labeo. 

Galdus  flung  his  arms  around  Labeo.  His  whole  frame 
shook. 

"  He  sent  you,"  he  murmured  at  last.  "  He  of  whom 
Marcus  used  to  speak.  I  have  knelt  here  many  nights,  and 
I  have  tried  to  remember  what  I  used  to  hear  about  him. 
He  took  away  my  boy,  —  my  god.  I  never  understood  about 
him.  I  am  only  a  Barbarian.  Did  he  do  this  ?  Did  he 
send  you  here  ?  " 

"  lie  did,  he  did,"  cried  Labeo,  as  tears  came  to  his  eyes. 
"  It  is  he  and  no  other." 

"  My  friend  and  my  brother,"  said  Galdus,  "  I  will  never 
leave  you.  I  have  found  you,  and  if  you  will  let  me  stay 
near  you,  I  will  give  you  my  love  and  my  life.  I  wish  to 
hear  about  him  whom  Marcus  loved.  He  must  be  like 
Marcus,  and  he  may  be  willing  to  let  me  see  my  boy  in  that 
bright  world  wliere  Marcus  said  he  was  going.  Can  you 
tell  me  of  him  ?  Or  can  you  tell  me  what  Marcus  meant  ? 
I  know  all  the  words  that  he  used  to  speak ;  b>it  I  am 
only  a  Barbarian,  and  I  cannot  understand  them.  You  can 
tell  me,  and  I  will  repeat  one  by  one  the  words  that  I  used 
to  hear,  so  that  I  can  understand  them." 

"  Come,"  said  Labeo.  "  We  will  never  part  again.  I 
will  tell  you  about  him,  and  he  who  brought  us  together  here 
will  make  you  understand." 

Time  went  on,  and  the  Briton  heard  from  Labeo  the  story 
of  the  One  whom  Mai'cus  loved.  Slowly  there  dawned  on 
his  mind,  the  light  of  that  truth  which  can  be  as  manifest  to 
tiie  humblest  as  to  the  wisest,  since  the  meaning  of  it  all  is 
love. 

The  Briton,  in  whom  love  was  so  strong,  could  feel  better 

than  many  of  colder  natures,  the  full  power  of  love  divine, 

when  once  the  idea  had  come  to  his  mind.     There  was  yet 

love  for  him,  in  return  for  his  own ;  a  love  larger  and  more 

36 


422 


Conclusion. 


profound  than  that  which  he  had  lost.  The  idea  came  at 
first  divinely,  but  it  came  ;  and  what  he  gained  he  retained  ; 
and  it  grew  within  him  until  at  last  it  became  strong,  —  a 
radiant  light,  enlightening  all  his  life. 

He  clung  to  Labeo.  In  his  wanderings,  his  discourses, 
his  perils,  his  dangers,  Labeo  had  this  faithful  heart,  with  all 
its  sympathy,  bound  to  his  by  a  double  tie,  —  love  for  the 
same  lost  one,  and  for  the  same  Redeemer.  He  learned  at 
last  to  do  something  more  than  sympathize.  He  could  speak 
tc  his  fellows  in  his  own  rough,  rude  way,  of  a  truth,  and  a 
hea/en,  and  a  God,  which  the  Druid  had  never  known,  and 
the  follower  of  the  Druid  had  never  hoped  for. 

Thus,  together,  these  men  shared  joy  and  sorrow  and 
peril  and  toil,  carrying  to  Roman  and  to  Barbarian,  the 
truth  which  they  had  learned ;  laboring  through  the  years  as 
they  passed  till  labor  ended,  and  rest  came. 

Galdus  found  that  rest  first. 

While  preparing  his  body  for  the  grave,  Labeo  found 
around  his  neck  a  golden  ball  suspended.  It  had  once  be- 
longed to  Marcus,  who  had  worn  it  as  all  Roman  boys  did. 
Galdus  had  taken  this  and  had  worn  it  next  his  heart 
through  all  those  years. 

Labeo  hung  it  round  his  own  neck,  and  wore  the  dear  relic 
of  his  boy  till  he  joined  him  on  high. 


THE  END. 


w 


